11341
by Westhaven18
Summary: Ever since the nations and their children were revealed, historians (among others) have been demanding autobiographies and memoirs to help with the historical record of the world... until one of the younger children offered her story. Maybe the world wasn't quite ready.
1. Prologue

**People handle unpleasant events in different ways. Some drink, some weep, some binge watch The Walking Dead. I write. And while I am fully aware I have a story that is still waiting to be finished, this is something that I have had knocking around in my head for a while and now, with what's happened to my country, this is something that I feel I just had to write as a coping method to remind myself what can happen and also to remind myself that this hasn't happened here yet (and will never, with the blessings of God or luck or whoever). Sorry if that seems overdramatic, but that's just how I feel.**

 **Totally do not own Hetalia. If I did, there would be so many questions and mysteries solved *cough HRE is Germany cough*. Also, this fic will get dark. Really dark. You'll get an idea by the end of the prologue so I won't say too much more, but thanks for reading!**

Prologue

"Hello, I'm Rebecca Simmons at the BBC. We begin today's news with a stunning development in the the still controversial topic of the National and International Representatives and their entrance into the public eye.

"Ever since last year's astounding revelation that countries, regions, and even global events are often manifested as individual people, there has been a great demand for these individuals to share their lives and histories with their people. Many historical societies and professionals specializing in historical studies have expressed intense interest in hearing the stories of these people as both supplementary resources and eye-witness accounts of national and international history.

"Today, it seems some of those wishes may have been answered."

* * *

 _To the people of the world,_

 _For many years I have wrestled with the decision of putting the story of my life to paper. Perhaps the greatest thing holding me back was the concern that if I were to write of my experiences, they might well be brushed aside as 'historical fiction', rather than what they are: the truth. But now, with the recent revelation of the existence of National Representatives, as well as their children, I feel that now is the right time to tell my story._

 _It is strange, many times I have tried to at least document my past and my childhood and I have never been able to, partially due to what I suppose is now termed 'Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder' (we have another word in_ Deutsche _and_ Italiano _but, as I am writing this down in English, I will call it by its English name) and accompanying flashbacks, and due to the simple problem that the story I have to tell is so long and made of so many facets that I have always had difficulty knowing where to start._

 _For now, I will start this way:_

 _Much of my story has already been written. The dates, the people, the events, good and bad. Some of it has been deemed too terrible to tell. Some of it has been lost because those others who saw and experienced it died before they could pass on what happened. And some of it has been burned out of record by those who seek to hide the crimes of the past._

 _But now most of those who saw and lived what I lived, my brothers and sisters, my enemies, my allies, and my friends, have passed now to their rewards or punishments. Soon I will be the only one left who witnessed and suffered that crime and I worry that those years will be forgotten. And now, with the world as it is, I have decided to again try and revisit my past, to remind humanity as a whole about the darkness and terror and hatred and horror and pain and death in a history less than a hundred years ago._

 _That being said, I have already mentioned the difficulty I have had trying to record my origins in the past. My first fifteen years on this planet were so full of life and death, horror and beauty, hatred and apathy, love and sacrifice… even after decades of being free to attend a temple (or whatever house of worship I please), free to go where I want, read what I want –_ be _who I want… There are so many stories that I could never truly put them in a book (as I have told the multitudes of writers and sensationalists that now follow my family and me around, howling for the chance to 'record a vital piece of history'). So I will try the Internet, which has no page limit or need for nosy editors._

 _But however I tell it, this is my story to tell. And now I offer my stories – my past – to you._

 _Never forget,_

 _Lucia Miriam Beilschmidt_

 _International Representative of the Holocaust_

 **So yeah. Dramatic? Yes. Overly so? Maybe. Cathartic as hell? F* yeah.**

 **The amount of care and research this fic will take is going to be monstrous, plus doctoral courses kind of suck out pieces of my soul, so I only plan to post new chapters on the 3rd Saturday of each month.**

 **Finally, this is a delicate topic and the writing of it will be something that I approach with great care and respect. The Holocaust was a tragedy of unspeakable proportions and what I put down here will only be the slightest hint of a microcosm of what it was and still is to this day. Though this is an act of coping for me with my life such as it is and the state of the country, such as it is, this is not something that I will treat lightly, but it is something that I have had in my mind for as long as I have loved Hetalia. Now seems as good a time as any.**

 **Hasta la pasta.**


	2. Chapter 1

**My stomach has been up and down ever since I posted the prologue. Making America great again feels oddly like developing stomach ulcers. Oh well.**

 **Obviously, I do not own Hetalia. There'd be a hell of a lot more manga volumes out and a hell of a lot less of the ship-teasing that we all love and hate.**

 **Now, onto the story:**

Chapter 1

The American newspapers said it was the coldest winter in a century.

But to Mikhail Yanukovich, of the hardiest Russian stock a Soviet farming community could offer, this winter was no worse than the ones he had seen every year for the past eighteen years of his life. Certainly it was no worse than the miserable months he had spent slogging through Stalingrad, picking his way through rubble, sewage, and his dead comrades, occasionally stopping to strip some poor bastard of a piece of clothing, a weapon, and any unused ammunition.

It looked no different, either. White as far as the eye could see, with the black shapes of trees and the rare building scattered across the bleak landscape.

He and his division were on point in the advancing Red Army, making their way cautiously across an open field to better accommodate for the tanks and artillery they hauled to beat the Germans into submission.

And oblivion and Hell, Mikhail thought savagely, twisting his hands around his rifle. Those Nazi cowards will pay for the atrocities they brought on my home.

It was midmorning, and Mikhail was taking his turn on one of the sturdy little ponies they had brought along for men and artillery transportation when one of the scouts came loping towards them from where he had been checking their path for ambushes or mines. The man, a short individual known as Grigori, ran to their lieutenant and rattled out a report. Reports were supposed to be kept between messenger and officer, but within an hour the whole division knew what had been said.

There was smoke coming from the south, and, what was more, it was coming from some sort of camp. It might have been a military outpost – someplace for officers of the Nazi army to get together and strategize. So the order went out that they were to make their way towards it with all speed.

It took an hour and a half to reach the base, and it soon became clear this was no little base camp. This was a huge facility, surrounded by ten foot high fences and barbed wire, filled with rows of buildings, some looking barely more than ramshackle and other buildings – larger and set more towards the back – made of more sturdy materials.

And then there was the smell. Even through the freezing temperatures and thick snow, there was the terrible stench of death. Not rot – it was too cold for that – but death. Mikhail had come to know it better than the smell of freshly tilled soil at his parents' farm. It was not cloying and pungent like the bloated carcasses of man and beast, nor sharp like the scent of gunpowder. It was like an unpleasant aftertaste in his mouth as he breathed the frigid air. Something soft, bitter and sweet at once, and felt utterly wrong as it sat on his tongue.

They were only fifty yards away when a murmur of alarm swept through the ranks – there were figures coming from the buildings in the camp, making their way to the fence and to the soldiers of the Red Army. But the people did not seem to have weapons, or not any that they would fire upon Mikhail and his fellows. Instead, the strange people slowly – rather clumsily, he noted – picked their way through the snow and stood silently, watching as the Red Army got closer.

It was as they finally reached the high fence – it was double layered, one fence set a few feet behind another fence, and all woven of barbed wire – that the Russian soldier realized that the people waiting for them so noiselessly were wrapped in ragged blankets.

A prisoner of war camp?

Around him, the other men of the division had become very quiet, raising rifles and settling into the ready positions they had learned forcing the German bastards back to their wretched nest. From the looks on their faces, Mikhail knew they were feeling just as uneasy as he was, but no one raised any objections as they approached the gates and set about dismantling the locks and chains holding them shut.

It was as they were finishing the heave to open the high gates that one of the strange people wrapped in blankets spoke. It was a rough sound, like last words gasped from a dying man, "Are you the Soviets?"

Lieutenant Krylov, a hard faced man from Moscow, stepped forward. "We are an advance force of the Red Army. Who are you? Your accent is not Russian."

The blanket man's voice became even harsher. "Number A 278651. I am… I was… Polish. A student –"

Krylov's voice was a bark. "That is not a name!"

"That is all I have left," the man replied.

"What?"

"My identification number," was the reply. A skeletal arm, just as horrible as those Mikhail had seen during the worst of the Stalingrad battle, emerged from the blanket the man held around himself. Stamped into the meager flesh of the forearm were the blue letters A278651. "It is all that is left of me."

There was muttering among the soldiers behind him. Mikhail turned to hiss for silence as the Lieutenant continued to interrogate the man and then saw what the others were staring at.

A sheet of snow had slid down from one of the mounds piled up against one of the ramshackle buildings from which people were still trudging. It took a moment for the young soldier to realize what he was seeing.

Bodies. It was a mound of naked bodies.

His teeth clenched and he turned his attention back to the trembling Polish man with his twig arms and pathetic blanket.

He thought of the dead piled in the streets of Stalingrad. Mothers clutching children. Old men frozen forever with their arms still futilely trying to cover their heads. Slender girls with their beautiful heads lying several feet away…

 _Will I ever escape from the bodies?_ He wondered in a disinterested sort of way. _Or will they catch me and pull me down to lie dead beside them?_

* * *

The Union of Soviet Socialist Republics, better known as Russia, had been summoned to the site of some strange place in the southern part of what had once been Poland's place (an involuntary smile spread across his lips – dear Poland would soon be tucked safely away with him as they became one). Apparently this was the camp that many of his soldiers had been sent to when they were captured by Germany's forces as the Nazis spread like lice across his beautiful country, and Russia wanted to see for himself just what had happened.

He wanted to find the source of the gnawing pain in his stomach that had been troubling him steadily ever since the spring of 1941 and had only worsened sometime later that November.

And now, staring at the trembling stick people who had once been real human beings, and their equally or slightly more emaciated dead fellows, he knew now where the pains had come from. A shaky young soldier led him past numerous little buildings made crudely of wood and into the brick buildings placed neatly among the sad wooden huts. Inside, Russia found himself blinking slowly at rooms filled with eye glasses. There was a whole warehouse with neat racks for a seeming million shoes, all carefully arranged by size. They passed a soldier running his fingers over a tiny pair of crocheted booties. One warehouse had him baffled and he spent several minutes staring and running his hands over the strange stuff.

"It is hair, Comrade General Braginsky," his guide said quietly. "From women. Human hair."

Russia stared at the different shades – black, brown, blond, red, grey, white – and moved on.

No less than six buildings were set aside for storing clothing, several rooms literally crammed with pants and skirts, shirts and coats.

On and on. Past dead bodies covered in snow and dazed prisoners wandering and gaping at the Soviets as they tried to take stock of what they were seeing.

A huge brick building fitted with ovens filled with human bones. Showers with fake pipes and finger nail scratches gouged into the walls. A neat closet with several empty cans of something called Zyklon, skull and crossbones clearly indicating its purpose.

Russia had a curious sort of ringing in his ears.

He had a good idea of where his men had gone.

He wondered how Germany and Prussia's heads would look when they hit the walls of this place. How many times would it take for their skulls to shatter? Burst like over ripe fruit. Melons exploding in showers of red. He smiled. Red was just his color now.

"Comrade General!" A burly soldier Russia vaguely recognized from the long agony that had been Stalingrad came running up to them. "Sir, there is a situation. There is a child and… we do not know how to approach it."

Russia went to see.

The new soldier led them to a sturdy concrete box in a building complex. It was surrounded by another barbed wire fence, from which was emerging a neat little group of children, mostly bundled up against the cold, some carried by the soldiers and medical personnel arriving by the truckload. As he watched, he noticed a certain similarity between pairs and small groups. They were twins and triplets.

The complex was a maze of hallways and rooms, soldiers carefully searching every space and corner, but the guide finally led them to what seemed to be a state of the art operating room. However, it was sans the operating table. Instead, there was a small cage, perhaps three feet in length, width, and height, made almost entirely of barbed wire, with only the floor of the cage being plain wire.

There was a creature sitting inside. A small person sitting with their knees drawn up to their chest, arms hugging legs, and face buried in knees.

Russia walked forward to get a better look.

He had lived for centuries, seen hundreds of famines that swept hundreds to their deaths, had even engineered a few in other countries, but he had never seen anyone this… skinny? Emaciated? Wasted? Insect-like limbs with bony joints sticking out, hands and feet looking grotesquely big against what could charitably be called the rest of the body. There didn't seem to be any flesh left where the… child, he realized… should have the plump curve of a behind, only the perfect outline of a small pelvic bone. Ribs stood out so intensely there were shadows between them.

There was the finest dark buzz left on the child's skull, which did nothing to hide the giant cross of scar tissue that neatly divided the top of the head in four pieces. Not unlike what you might see in a case of brain surgery. More scars were speckled across the parts of the body Russia could see.

"Hello," he began.

The child's whole body jerked and it slammed itself bodily against the side of the cage towards them, snarling and clawing at the barbed wire, heedless of the blood that was now streaming from hands and arms. The cage rocked alarmingly and his two guards retreated a few steps.

Russia frowned deeply.

There was a collar around the child's neck, with small chains attached to it that bolted securely to each corner of the cage. Even now he saw it was digging into the child's neck as it battled to reach them, clearly intent on tearing them apart with only its bare hands.

His frown deepened and he walked to the cage and bent before it. The child froze for the slightest of moments before struggling even harder, baring teeth that were surprisingly very white, and throwing itself against the side of the cage with increasing ferocity.

Without a word, the Allied Nation reached out and took firm hold of the cage as it tipped dangerously forward. The child hit the side of the cage and gripped the sides. The collar had cut into the neck.

Russia carefully set the cage firmly back onto its base, stood, and hefted his pipe. The child went very still, its bloodshot black eyes focused entirely on him. With one blow he knocked off the padlock holding the cage door shut and slowly pulled open the cage.

"Hush now, little one," he crooned to the feral wretch. "I am here to take you away from this place."

It tried to bite him. He let it, ignoring the pain in his wrist as he set about ripping the chains attached to the collar out of their settings in the cage. The instant the last chain was broken, the wasted creature lunged at his body, hitting him in the chest like a tiny tank.

With strength that he still found impressive even after seeing it rock the cage, the child knocked him aside and darted towards the exit. But a sharp yank at the chains he still held sent it crashing down on its back.

And as Russia stood over the child, it occurred to him that even in the pathetic skeletal mess of bones, nonexistent muscle, and shriveled organs, there was something critical missing. An eyebrow rose.

Huh. A girl, then.

A girl who was gasping and sobbing for breath even as her sad excuse for a body managed to roll itself onto its knees and face him. She really was a sad looking creature, looking more like a grasshopper with the stick-like limbs and the black eyes that were too blank and animalistic to be –

Well, Russia thought to himself, of course she is not human. No human can survive being so thin. He himself had once been this thin, wandering about during the 17th century, staring at the dead bodies of his people and getting thinner and thinner with each day until he thought he would surely simply fade out of existence.

Now, the girl had grabbed onto one of the chains attached to her collar and was fiercely pulling, trying to drag it from his grip. It really was astonishing how much strength she still had.

He bent down, keeping the chains securely held in one fist, and shrugged out of his coat until it was only the arm with the chain that kept the garment on him. Switching the chain to his other hand, he carefully shook out the big coat, and tossed it like a blanket over his wild captive.

Up until this moment, the girl had made no sounds that were not grunts, muted sobbing and gasps, or snarls, but the moment his clothing hit her skin she began screaming.

 _"Nein! Nein! Nein!"_ she shrieked, trying to tear the coat off of her.

Russia spared only a brief moment of surprise – so she could speak – before he firmly wrapped an arm around the thrashing body and lifted it up, pinning flailing arms and legs as he roughly cradled the child.

There was a moment of wild struggle. Her whole body seemed to buck in his arms as she tried to get free. And then, all at once, she went still.

The Soviet Nation glanced down at the bundle in his arms in surprise, but began walking out of the room anyway. As he made his way down a hallway, he noticed the child was trying to shake the coat off of her head, squirming and wiggling. Russia was silent as he pulled the coat even more securely over her head.

They got to the entrance of the building and Russia walked without pause out into the open air. Dirty snow crushed wetly beneath his boots on the muddy paths; around him were his soldiers rushing around trying to reestablish order of the camp, though it was mostly other soldiers they had to organize, not the dazed prisoners of this place. Some of the younger soldiers, those who had only recently been delivered as replacements and had not yet learned the stoicism of the veterans, sat with their heads in their hands or stood transfixed by the mounds of corpses heaped with typical German neatness between shacks or near buildings with the ovens.

Of course, the sun had almost completely disappeared behind the trees so there was no question about his guards getting him back to Krakow before full night set in, so Russia would have to make due with one of the officer's quarters in the prison-camp's personnel barracks. When he got there, he was pleased to see it was clean, though rather cluttered – as though its occupant had left in a hurry. There was a desk and chair, with a little window set high up on the wall above the desk.

"Will that be all, Comrade General?" asked one of his escorts, snapping a salute.

 _"Nyet,"_ he responded, one hand about to close the door. "Bring what food you can find. Then go and help with the prisoners, then be ready at sunrise to return to Krakow."

The men nodded, saluting again, and Russia closed the door.

The girl in his coat was beginning to struggle again. He dumped her on the bed and pulled his coat up off the tiny body. She knelt on the bed, her hands clutching at the bedclothes, her black eyes watching him from the corner of her eye like a nervous wild animal – she neither seemed to notice nor care that she was naked.

Russia went to his pack and rummaged until he found his spare shirt. It was sweat-stained, bloody, and smelt of vodka. It also nearly fell off the girl, as the neck hole was almost too big to catch on even one of her bony, knife-thin shoulders. A length of rope served as a belt and just like that she was clothed.

He stepped back and stared at her. She had not struggled or said a word as she was dressed, allowing him to move her body around as he wished, but now he wanted her to speak.

"Who are you, little girl?"

She said nothing.

"Do you have a name?"

Silence.

"A number?"

She gave him the slightest glance, then held out one arm. Just like his men had told him, blue numbers were burned into the inside skin of her left arm, between her wrist and elbow.

11341.

Russia stared at the number. Then he stared at her.

This time, she stared right back into his eyes.

It took a few moments for him to see it. That flash – that other – that was in every Nation and International Representative's eyes. He had seen it in his son's eyes when he came wandering through the front lines during Pyotr's battle with the Swedish Charles XII when they had won the land that would become Leningrad. It was in the eyes of America and Britain's child by way of their improved relationship in the late 19th century.

And this girl had it, gleaming in the back of her eyes.

Russia exhaled deeply. Who was this? A Nation? A Nation's child?

What in the hell had Germany done?

* * *

Russia woke to the sight of the girl standing on the desk and peering out of the window. She was up on her toes, making her legs look even more emaciated than before, pale morning light outlining her body as it streamed into the room. Now at least, however, she had a tiny bit of broth in her – she had refused the heavy stew that had been brought for her, insisting that the food would hurt her stomach – and an unhealthy amount of bandages everywhere she had allowed Russia to touch. Clothes from the warehouses had been offered but she had snarled, saying she would not steal a dead girl's clothes, so she was still in his shirt and a rope belt. But at least she had agreed to put on shoes.

He swung his legs onto the floor and approached her.

"What are you looking at?"

She spoke in perfect Russian. "The sun's waking up."

"It does that."

"I haven't seen the sun in a long time. I forgot how pretty it was."

For a long time, he sat on the bed and stared at her watching the sunrise out of the tiny window. Finally, he set about retying his boots and gathering his bag and coat, then approached the girl. She made no struggle as he wrapped her in the blankets from the bed and carried her out.

The guards from last night were already ready and were shouting at another soldier who was scrambling to prepare a jeep for the two hour trip back to Krakow.

Russia waited until the vehicle was ready and he had sat down before saying, "I am taking you to Krakow."

She looked at him, tearing her eyes away from the pale lavender and bright orange that stretched across the sky, staining the snow on the rooftops gold. "That is where the Butcher lives."

"The Butcher?"

She nodded. "We call him the Butcher of Krakow. I don't know his real name."

Russia rearranged his grip on her in his lap. "And what is your name?"

"11341."

"That is not a name."

"It is what the _Doktor_ and the others called me."

He shook his head. "You must have a real name. A proper name."

"What is your name?"

"I am Ivan Braginsky."

She blinked at him. "I thought you wanted a name. I can tell you what I am."

"Alright. Tell me what you are."

She raised a bony arm and gestured around them, taking in the shacks, the bodies, the fragile living corpses stumbling about, the warehouses with their clothing, shoes, and the material possessions of seemingly tens of thousands of people. "This is what I am. There is more of me in other places. There, and there. Back there. Some of me was buried, but a lot of me is ashes now. Some of me is hidden, and some of me isn't."

She continued in that vein as his guards climbed into the jeep and the engine started. Then just as they were to leave, one of the prisoners of the camp stumbled towards the vehicle, reaching out. The girl put her tiny stick-like hand into his.

 _"Idź siostrzyczkę. Przetrwać. Opowiedz naszą historię."_ **[Polish rough translation: "Go, little sister. Survive. Tell our story."]**

 _"Będę, bracie. Do widzenia,"_ she replied in flawless Polish. **["I will, brother. Goodbye."]**

"You speak Polish too," Russia commented blandly as the two parted, and the jeep started up and began a slow crawl towards the gates.

 _"Da,"_ back to Russian.

She did not seem inclined to talk to him as they left the camp, only raising a trembling hand to wave to the silent crowd who began to murmur amongst themselves, louder and louder until it became a dull chant, almost a song.

 _"Y'simeich Elohim k'Sarah, Rivkah, Rachel, v'Leah. Y'varechecha Adonai V'yish'm'recha. Ya'er Adonai panav eilecha vichuneka. Yisa Adonai panav eilecha v'yasem l'cha shalom."_ **[Hebrew: "May God make you like Sarah, Rebecca, Rachel and Leah. May God Bless you and guard you. May the light of God shine upon you, and may God be gracious to you. May the presence of God be with you and give you peace."]**

The chant went on and on, even after they passed through the gates. The girl craned her neck to keep the people in sight for as long as she could. Then she turned her eyes back to the bright orange sun rising up over the trees.

"Lucia." She pronounced it the German way. To Russia it sounded almost like 'Loot-she-a'.

"What?"

"My name. I want to be Lucia. For God's light – it's shining on me, see?" She pointed at the sun.

Russia looked up at the sun, then at the girl and her face, more skull than anything.

"That is a good name, Lucia."

 **A/N1: This was written to be as historically accurate as possible - Hetalia-wise, anyway. And, for all of you out there reading this who are lucky enough to be fluent in Polish or Hebrew, I sincerely apologize for any mistakes I make with your language - blame Google Translate and websites detailing traditional Jewish prayers. Also, if you feel the need to message and complain about my writings without offering constructive criticism, I will consider them flames and will address them accordingly. Otherwise, thank you for reading this chapter and I will see you again on March 18th.**

 **A/N2: My awesome beta-reading boyfriend told me that he heard the following being retold in the English dubbed narrator's voice - a huge, if disturbing compliment. Anyway, all of this is historical information that might make this chapter more understandable, so happy reading and educational time:**

 _ **So the Russians had been through so much shit ever since the Germans first invaded in 1941 that they were almost routine about the discovery of the concentration camps. This is NOT to say they didn't care, but they had been through the Nazis burning and systematically slaughtering their people, as well as the Battle of Stalingrad which was a level of bloodshed that was, and remains, completely staggering. So it wasn't that they were "casual" or "uncaring", more like "numb" by the time they made it to places like Auschwitz.**_

 _ **The sights that the Russians must have seen upon discovering Auschwitz are too terrible to truly represent in this. I can really only give the broadest of strokes.**_

 _ **After the Nazis invaded the Soviet Union in June 1941, they quickly find themselves overloaded with Soviet POWs, who were shuffled off to concentration camps. And because there were literally millions of them, the Nazis in charge of the concentration camps, particularly Rudolf Höss, the Commandant of Auschwitz, decided that these millions of POWs would be perfect specimens to try out human experimentations. One of these experiments was whether Zyklon B would be an effective gas alternative to carbon monoxide in killing those the Nazis considered 'undesirable'. The first recorded experimentation that I could find of Russian POWs being gassed with Zyklon B happened on November 3, 1941.**_

 _ **Also, Russia is angry at the fate of his soldiers, but calmer about mass starvations, possibly because the Soviet Union engineered a famine in Ukraine that killed between 2.5 to 7.5 million people between 1932 and 1933 in what is known as the Holodomor. Then, there were the many famines in Russian history, one of which was in the 17th century during the Time of Troubles when one-third of Russia's population starved to death. So, yeah, Russia and hunger are old pals.**_

 _ **Krakow was less than 70 kilometers from Auschwitz (less than 45 miles, Americans). That's less than an hour's drive.**_

 _ **In this story, the children of countries can arise from huge, history changing events. Like Peter the Great of Russia seizing the land that would become St. Petersburg (Leningrad when the Soviets were in power). Even if that meant he had to take on the whole of the Swedish navy and army to do it. Dear Su-san was not happy about that. Russia and his son, Radomir, were quite pleased.**_

 _ **The Butcher of Krakow was the title given to Hans Frank, who was the Governor-General of Occupied Poland and oversaw the persecution and murder of the Jewish population. Don't worry, we'll be meeting him later.**_

 _ **So, in an interesting coincidence (or maybe not a coincidence), the prisoners of Auschwitz were liberated on January 27, 1945 – a Saturday or the Jewish Sabbath. The Hebrew words that the prisoners say to Lucia are actually two prayers that were traditional to say over children, girls in this case, on the Sabbath in Jewish families.**_

 _ **Lucia, coming from "Lux", the Latin word for light, is a name that I have always loved; it is one of those wonderful names that are present in almost country in Europe in different forms, so it makes perfect sense that someone who is made up of just about every nation in Europe would have this name. Of course, this also means that the different nations will all have slightly different names for her in their own languages, so be on the look-out. Seriously, look up Lucia on , there are different versions of Lucia everywhere!**_


	3. Chapter 2

**Time for Chapter 2. Things are getting even heavier, both for the characters and for the United States. I hope you enjoy.**

 **Warning, this chapter may be seen as especially disturbing as it involves the retelling of horrific events from the perspective of a child. Please approach with caution.**

 **Also, I still do not own Hetalia. If I did, the next season would be out already.**

Chapter 2

Poland's whole body was a solid mass of pain – had been since September 1939 – even breathing and walking was excruciating. Not that that had stopped Russia from assigning him to care for the strange-familiar skeleton girl he had brought back from the countryside. Well, after Lithuania had tried and been chased from the room. Latvia and Ukraine had both tried as well, but had encountered the same reaction as Poland's old friend; the girl had screamed and thrown everything within arm's reach at them, including dishes, the bedside table, stepstools, every pillow… even the mattress.

So it had fallen to Poland. Every day for the past two weeks, he had brought up cups of broth and water every two hours, watching as the girl sipped it all carefully. He had been left in charge of the girl's clothes and bathing, neither of which had been the most dignified of jobs – even if he was happy to get to play with dresses again… His charge, however, was hardly a good participant in dress-up games.

She was as thin as any of the children he had seen come out of the ghettos. He had had to tailor so many dresses to fit her emaciated frame, and there was really nothing to be done about her hair, short as it was. So she was an utter caricature of a child, all stick limbs with her joints looking swollen and terrible in comparison. He tied kerchiefs around her head but, no matter how much he tried to make them match or compliment her outfit with bright colors, cheerful patterns, or the occasional bow or flower, the girl always looked like a sad imitation of something that might once have been a child.

Now here he was, slogging up the stairs to the girl's bedroom to bring her breakfast and help her bathe and dress, balancing a tray loaded with a bowl of thin chicken broth with a sparse sprinkling of potatoes, a slice of black bread with a tiny pot of strawberry _varenye_ , Russia's version of jam, and a small pot of tea and an attendant tea cup. Over one arm he had slung a basket filled with some basic tailoring instruments, sewing needles, thread, pins, and the like.

What he did not have was a weapon with which to fend off the girl if she was feeling… unappreciative of his efforts, as she had often been in the past. His head still ached from a week before when she had lobbed her bedside drawers at him, a solid wooden affair (it had taken two men to haul it into the room several decades ago) that had nailed him directly in the face and pinned him to the floor for a good twenty minutes until he had been able to wriggle out from under it.

Today, with a slight quiver in his stomach, Poland lightly knocked on the door. " _Lucja_?" **[Polish version of Lucia]**

There was no answer.

He knocked again. " _Lucja_? It's me, _Polska_ , may I come in?"

Nothing. Dear, sweet Mary and Joseph…

This was going to be ugly.

With a rising sense of tension, the nation gave the door another knock, perhaps a bit louder than was necessary. " _Lucja_! I am coming in now, okay? I have your breakfast!"

Clenching his teeth and ready to dive to one side at the slightest moment, Poland steadied the tray on one arm and very carefully took the doorknob and turned it. There were no immediate screams of rage – a good sign – or the crash of furniture.

Better and better.

Still prepared to run for his life, he neatly pushed the door open and sidled inside. " _Lucja_?"

The huge wooden bed with its traditional bed curtains was empty, the sheets and blankets a tangled mess as though the occupant had not found a peaceful night's sleep. The bed curtains had been half torn off their rods to dangle forlornly around the bed, brushing the mattress. On the floor to one side were the shattered pieces of what had once been a matching pitcher and bowl.

And standing in front of the large picture window set in the adjacent wall was his troublesome charge; she had apparently lost her nightgown some time during the night and was standing in full view of the window stark naked.

Poland could only thank God that they were on the third floor of the hotel Russia had commandeered, making it impossible for anyone out in the square to see the naked girl inside. Not that there was much to look at – Lucia was just as emaciated today as she had been from the moment Russia had brought her here. So there she stood, her frail body on display as she stared out the window silently.

" _Lucja_!" he chirped in his brightest voice, hurrying in and setting the tray and basket on the bedside table (really, he should see about getting those things bolted to the ground until she left). "Isn't the snow just the prettiest? I told the girls downstairs to get ready to start bringing water up here so you could have a bath, won't that be nice? That way you can get all toasty-toasty before I bring out your fabulous ensemble for the day. I'm thinking that today would be a great day for something cheery – how do you feel about pink and fawn? I found the cutest little sweater and skirt combo that will look just the cutest on you! And, get this, I even found matching shoes!

"Of course, first you'll totally need to get some of this amazing breakfast into you! After that we'll get to work on making you squeaky clean, okay?"

Throughout his supposedly careless babble, Poland had been bustling about the room, keeping one eye on the girl, as he began putting the bed to rights, unearthing the missing nightgown, and wrapping the girl up in a blanket to set her into a plush chair for her breakfast.

She had not said a single word.

The silence, and Poland's increasingly desperate efforts to fill it, continued as Lucia was fed (she managed half a cup of the broth, one piece of potato, a bite of the bread, and a few sips of tea) and bathed.

It was only when Poland was carefully dressing her in the pale brown skirt and pink sweater, along with thick woolen stockings and brown shoes, that she finally spoke.

"I didn't wear clothes for a long time. I think I forgot how."

Lucia often spoke like this, a faraway tone that should have been coming out of an old woman's mouth, not a child's. It only gave further weight to Russia's claim that she was some kind of personification like them.

Poland kept his tone light and careless. "Well, today you don't have much of a choice! You're going on a little trip!"

She went still under his hands. So still he had no trouble pulling a knitted hat with an adorable pink silk flower sewed to the side (his own creation, of course) unto her head.

"Am I going back to the _Doktor_?"

Feliks had been around long enough to hear this child screaming at night – screaming at the _Doktor_ to leave her alone… to stop killing them. It had been enough to reduce him to silent weeping in the halls.

"No," he said flatly. "You are never going back to that _skurwysyn_ ever again." **[Polish insult: "son of a whore" or "motherfucker"].**

Lucia's black eyes blinked up at him dully. "You should not curse in front of the children," she informed him mildly.

He fussed with the pink flower on her hat. "I know, that was, like, totally out of line. Sorry.

"Anyway, like I was saying, you are going on a major important trip today! You are going to this totally fabulous place in Mr. Russia's house called the Livadia Palace!"

She said nothing.

Poland hurried on. "It's a totally amazing place! Lots of trees and fountains and gardens! Oh, and you'll get to meet the other countries! China will be there, and Mr. America, France… and I know Britain will definitely want to meet you!"

"Britain. What does he sound like?"

Poland hmmed thoughtfully. "Well, he speaks English, which is a totally confusing and totally lame language. Listen:

" _This is English. People in Great Britain, America, and Australia speak it. I think Netherlands told me about some other nation that speaks it too, but I can't remember. "_

Lucia had been listening to him very seriously and nodded when he finished.

" _Yes,"_ she said in perfect English, sounding like proper London school girl. _"I remember there were some people who talked like that."_

Feliks was staring. This made nine languages she seemed to be able to speak: Polish, Russian, Lithuanian, Latvian, Ukrainian, German, Hebrew, Yiddish and now English.

"Yeah," he said at last, switching back to Polish. "There are a lot of English-speakers in Europe right now."

* * *

Britain sat sullenly in a large armchair chair, fighting the urge to pace and complain as he waited for Russia to arrive. Across from him sat France, who was cheerily perusing a small bundle of documents and whistling La Marseilles.

He wondered how ungentlemanly it would be to get up and start pounding on doors until the damned Cossak appeared to explain why he had summoned them. Didn't he understand how busy he was, especially with Monty still in a tiff over the Holland fiasco? Then there were the Berlin bombings to oversee –

An image flashed through his mind of smoking buildings on Gambia Street, Southwark Bridge Road, Lavington Street… even Buckingham Palace.

 _How do you like bombs in your city, Germany?_ Britain thought savagely. _Do the sirens keep you up at night? Do you see the wailing mothers in your nightmares? Bloody cocksucking bastard._

He swallowed hard and fought to regain his focus.

Really though, this was an international conference! Surely Russia knew they had better things to do than sit around and wait for him to get here and tell them what was going on. And didn't he realize that the longer they sat around and did nothing, the more likely it was that America – who Russia had not invited – would realize that they were having a meeting without him and lose his bloody mind.

They had been waiting for almost fifteen minutes when the communist bastard finally showed his git face. Britain was even more irritated because he had been interrupted as he was carefully jotting down some vital, embarrassing, parts of Russia's history that would go into the documentary he had decided to make – one did not keep a gentleman waiting, after all.

But the door did open to reveal Russia at last and Britain immediately stood up to begin a sour tirade about punctuality. Then, Russia stepped to one side and held the door for… Poland?

The Eastern European country had seen much better days. His face was emaciated and his clothes hung off him like a gown on a hanger. Bruises and scrapes stretched across visible bits of skin they could see, signs of the Nazi-occupation and his time in his resistance forces.

He was limping noticeably as he entered the room, carrying a puppet dressed in a blue and white dress with a matching cap, as well as tidy knee socks and black patent leather shoes. As they watched, Poland carefully moved to the neat sofa that sat to the left of Britain's chair and set the doll on the cushions as though the thing were made of the finest crystal.

Britain was just thinking how ridiculously sad and pathetic it was that Poland had been so deprived of the opportunity for his crossdressing that he had taken to dressing up dolls, when one of the form's hands moved to grip Poland's shoulders as the Nation piled several pillows around it.

And suddenly Britain had gone very cold.

France spoke first. " _Chère douce sainte Mère de Dieu…_ " **[French (duh): "Dear, sweet, holy Mother of God."]**

"Russia," Arthur found himself croaking. "What the bloody hell is this?"

Russia had come to stand beside the sofa where the thing had been seated, while Poland was taking up a position behind it. "This is Lucia. I found her in Poland's house. Apparently she was Mr. Germany's guest in one of his fun camps."

If this was a girl, it was like no girl Britain had ever seen. Its limbs were so thin it – she – seemed more like matchsticks held together with twine rather than bones and muscle. The beautiful clothes she wore made it worse, the fine materials and stylish cuts almost mocking against the body they covered.

But the black eyes watching them from out of that gaunt, dead-looking face were fierce and bright and blinking as they stared at him and France.

" _Doux Jésus_ ," France whispered. [French: "Sweet Jesus"] "Those rumors about the death camps… they were true."

There was a strange sound – harsh and angry. It cut through the air like tiny rusted knives.

And it was the doll. Lucia. She was laughing.

It was not a sound that should have been coming out of any child, yet here it was.

"And what is being so funny, _прекрасный_?" Russia asked, sounding untroubled. **[Russian translation: "Lovely (child)"]**

The girl, Lucia, spoke in a voice that was something like the shushing sound of dead leaves and the discordant ring of dented bells, the voice of a child corpse, blank and emotionless. "He says it with such horror. Such shock. Did he not know of Drancy? Of Avrillé-les-Ponceaux? Struthof?"

The tiny hands neatly placed in her lap gripped cloth so tightly the already painfully bony knuckles seemed only milliseconds from bursting from the skin, never mind turning white. The dark shining eyes were going glassy and blank and the body began a tiny rocking motion.

Britain leaned forward in his seat, half in concern and half in horrified fascination. "Poppet? Lovey, can you hear me?"

He reached out and placed a gentle hand on one knee. It was sharp and hard under his hand, and he was shocked by the deceptive strength held in that one seemingly fragile joint.

The rocking stopped instantly – the body going so still it was practically vibrating at his touch.

And those black eyes were fixed unblinkingly on his green ones.

Britain felt a shuddering breath escape him. She was one of them.

* * *

France had seen much in his life. Wars, famine, a revolution that had spiraled wildly out of control until blood literally ran in the streets… But he had never seen anything quite like Lucia.

It was obvious she was like them – a country or some other representative – but…

What did she represent? The question made a sour feeling rise up in the pit of his stomach.

Meanwhile, Britain had sat back into his chair, staring down into his teacup. He had not said a word since the child had met his eyes, undoubtedly giving him a solid view into a glimpse of her deeper self. The things that made her who and what she was.

France could not say he envied the other country in the least. Not that _he_ , the indomitable France, had needed to look the mysterious _Lucie_ in the eye to know what she was. It had been there in the way she moved – the way she took up the space around her and owned it in a way no human ever could.

Even so emaciated and reduced to the pitiable creature before them, she held herself very still and quiet, poised as a statue.

" _Ma chérie_ ," he began quietly. "Could you tell us who you are?"

"I was 11341 at the camp," she told him. "There was a name before that but I can't remember it. Now I am Lucia."

Britain was now leaning forward again, eyes intent. "The camps? Which ones, love?"

Her eyes wandered back to Britain's and the island nation only slightly flinched as he met her gaze. "I was in Auschwitz, Treblinka, Sobibor… and the ghetto in Warsaw."

Britain's jaw tightened. "That's a lot of places, poppet."

Rail-thin shoulders went up and down. "They had a lot of things they wanted to try."

"What do you mean?"

"When they could not kill me like the others, they decided to send me to the _Doktor_ so he could conduct experiments."

The sour feeling in the pit of his stomach was only worsening for Francis. It was not entirely unheard of for National Representatives and their children to be used as subjects in experiments, but he had the sneaking suspicion that what she had experienced had not been the smallpox inoculation he had undergone with Louis XVI a couple of hundred years ago or so.

Britain was resting his head on tented hands. "I'm afraid I'm still having a bit of trouble understanding, love. Could you, maybe, tell us the whole of your story? That is, could you tell us where you come from, how you came to be in each of those camps, and how you were rescued by Mr. Russia?"

Lucia nodded, her face expressionless.

She didn't start right away. For several long moments there was only the sound of the fire crackling as the four men and one girl sat silently.

Finally, the child seemed to collect herself and begin speaking. "The first thing I remember is… lights."

"Lights?"

A nod. "Mm, a menorah. There was one candle, then two… all the way up to eight. There was music and dancing. The _Oma_ **[informal German for "grandmother"]** of the house made me latkes and the _Oppa_ **[informal German for "grandfather"]** gave me _gelt_. I played with the children on the floor. Outside there was music and laughing. There was snow falling. It was all wonderful – but the air the _muttis und vatis und oppas und omas_ **[German for "mothers and fathers and grandpas and grandmas"]** were breathing was heavy."

She paused and frowned, a thoughtful little expression. "I don't remember much else before that. Maybe shouting? Lots of parades and crowds, I think."

France laced his fingers and squeezed his hands together. Menorah. Was she perhaps tied to the Jews of Germany? He gave an involuntary shudder. Were there even enough left to cause the manifestation of personification? "What's the next thing you remember, _chérie_?"

Her face was stonily calm. "Later… It was cold. The air was heavy and there were lots of people in a crowd… someone was holding me in their arms so I could see over the heads of the people. The evil little man was standing on the podium with an old, fat man."

Her fierce black eyes had gone as dull and empty as pits.

"What do you mean, the evil little man?" Britain asked softly even as he traded glances with the men around the room; they all knew who she was talking about.

"He was not as big as some of the others. He had dark hair, and dead eyes. He had a little mustache. He always looked like he was dying from a fever."

But, of course, Britain had to be certain. He reached over to the stack of folders and papers he'd brought with him and extracted a file, opening it up to flip through the pages. "Are you talking about Fuhrer Adolf Hitler? This man here? Right here?"

As Lucia looked at the man Britain was pointing to, her face had become as flat and dead as her eyes. "Yes. This is the evil man. He started all of this."

And then, faster than France's eye could track, she ripped the paper out of Britain's hands and began shredding it. In less than a moment, she had reduced the sheet into confetti and showed no sign of stopping, tearing the pieces until they were too small for even her small hands to destroy.

"Whoa, love!" Britain cried, snatching in horror at the floating bits of paper. "This is a top secret document!"

"I believe now it _was_ a top secret document. And if it was, then one wonders why you would just carry it around so casually, _Angleterre_ ," France commented blandly.

The tone in Britain's voice was not bland. "Back off, frog!"

He turned his attention back to Lucia, who was still methodically shredding the larger bits of paper. "Um… I am terribly sorry, I do beg your pardon, poppet. Do you think you could continue?"

She said nothing for several long minutes, her hands still working with mechanical fervor to tear what remained of the document into oblivion.

Then, she continued as though she had never stopped, "The evil little Hitler screamed about how _Deutschland_ would rise again to greatness and how he would make the enemies pay. He said that _Deutschland_ would rise up above all the world. He said that all _Deutschland_ had to do was purge itself of the evil influences within."

"Evil influences?" Britain repeated.

"Communists. Rival political parties. And Jews."

France didn't want to ask the next obvious question. He really, truly, did not. But Britain, damned stupid thorough Britain, had to ask.

"Could you tell us what he meant by 'purged'?"

"First they arrested the communists. They opened a camp outside of Munich to put them in. They stopped people buying from stores owned by Jewish people. They fired people who weren't like them. They said that people who weren't perfect couldn't have babies, they cut into them and took babies away. They said people weren't really people – they called us pigs. They smashed our synagogues and our businesses. They burned our homes and what was precious to us. They made us label ourselves as less. They took libraries and school and bicycles and sports and swimming pools and movie theatres and park benches away from us. I got big enough that I had to wear the Star. They spread their hate. And then… they came for us."

Her eyes had gone very wide. The whites of her eyes looked very stark against the solid black of her irises and pupils. She had stopped ripping the paper; her hands were clenched so tightly it seemed her bones themselves would crack to pieces.

Very slowly, her head fell and she stared unblinkingly at her lap. "First there were the ghettoes in Poland. Those weren't so bad – until the food started running out. Then we starved. I started growing very fast, even when there was no food to eat. Sometimes they would take us away. No one ever came back. First you went hungry or were taken. Then you were starved or taken. Then you were dying or taken. They took me. They took others.

"They drove us into the countryside and made the men dig pits. They made us strip naked and stand by the pits. And then they shot us."

There should have been a pause. A moment of horrified silence at her words. But Lucia, in her pretty little dress, staring down at her hands in her lap, continued on with her story as though someone shooting a child who looked about seven years old was normal. Like it didn't matter.

"They tried to shoot us all in the head so we would all fall dead into the pits, but not all of us died right away. They shot at people who were still moving until they got tired. Then they buried us.

"I woke up and crawled out. No one was around when I dug myself out so I walked into the forest. A nice family took me into their house. They had a farm with apple trees. The father's name was Krzysztof and the mother's name was Magdalena. They had two boys, Lukasz and Janek. They had Jews hiding in their cellar so I stayed there for a little while, but soldiers found us.

"They put us into big trucks and made us watch while they shot all the nice people in the house. They hanged Krzysztof and Magdalena and Lukasz and Janek from their apples trees and burned their house down."

Poland was crying silently behind Russia.

"I was bigger when they drove us to the train station. And I got bigger when they took us to Sobibor. They did not starve us there. They made us get off of the train and said that we had to clean up before we could go to the main camp. They took us to big rooms and told us to undress. We undressed and they took us to go to the showers. They were big rooms. Big enough for two hundred people. More. More than two hundred. Then they closed the doors. There were no lights and it was very dark. And then they killed us."

France heard a voice that sounded very much like his own ask, "How did they kill you, _chérie_?"

She looked back up and into his eyes. He wished she hadn't.

"They gassed us. Like lice. Like rats. And we died.

"When I woke up they were shoveling our bodies into the oven room so we could be burned. Sometimes, they would stop so they could pull out gold teeth, but other times they would just wait until they burned the bodies all away. Then they just picked the gold out of the ashes."

"What happened when they saw you were alive?"

"They didn't notice. I snuck out of the oven room and ran away, but one of them saw me. He was a big officer with a silver skull on his hat and he laughed and said that Sobibor could not handle one little Jewish bitch so he would take her to Treblinka, where they knew how to do things properly. The man in charge of Sobibor came out and said that I was too fast and little to keep in one place. So, the Skull-man took out his gun and knocked me down. He beat me until my legs broke, then he told his men to put me in a sack so I would not get my Jew blood on his car.

"They put me in their car and drove for a long time until they reached Treblinka. It was like Sobibor. The showers there were fake, too. People went there to die. The Skull-man gave me to a lady with a baby. He told her that she was my mama until they decided what to do with me. Then he laughed and walked away. The nice lady said I could call her מומע" **[Yiddish for "aunt", pronounced "mume"]**. Her name was Rifka and her baby's name was Shmuel. She didn't let go of me or Shmuel even when she was dying. She held us and prayed that we would be safe and go to heaven and be with God."

She had yet to break eye contact with France. The country of love would have given anything to break the connection, but it was as though she had caught him completely and was holding him in a death grip.

"I woke up when they were trying to pull Shmuel and me away from Rifka's body. I kicked them – my legs were all better – but they grabbed me again and threw me back into the showers. When the Skull-man saw me later he said that I obviously didn't know how to be a good Jew and just die like Rifka and Shmuel and the others."

Lucia stopped and broke eye contact with France, looking into the cheerfully crackling fire. "I think I will go to find him one day. He can hold his baby and I can see if he can be a good Skull-man and die like the others."

Britain was staring at her with a look of utter horror. Russia's face had gone neutral and Poland was hunched over, shaking with convulsive, silent, weeping.

France just felt… he had felt his people, his Jews, being tortured, being killed. But this… he had killed people with clubs and crude knives, then swords or axes, guns, cannons, even missiles and rockets now. Bombs… you attacked armies and soldiers… Not this. This was not war.

This was…

Staring at Lucia, who was still telling her story, France found he had no words. Crime. Horror. Massacre. Slaughter. Atrocity.

None came close.

But the more this wraith of a creature spoke, the more her existence made sense. This – _she_ – went beyond countries and borders and nationalities. She simply was.

* * *

Britain was fighting to remain calm.

This was bad. A travesty.

But, surely, it wasn't as terrible as it seemed? After all, how many people would this need to have happened to for Lucia to appear?

One thousand? Five thousand? Maybe ten?

But all he could do was think about how Armenia had slowly dissolved away during the first Great War as the Ottoman Empire mercilessly went about slaughtering every one of Davit's people that he could. Davit had completely faded away by the end of the war, leaving behind Osvanna… how many people had it taken…?

But he didn't need to wonder – he already knew. More than one and a half million people.

Had such a thing truly happened again?

"Go on, _ma petite_." This from France.

Her eyes turned away from the fire and turned to France. "They gassed me twice more. The Skull-man had me shot but I just crawled away when they tried to put me in the ovens. Then there was talk about putting me in the ovens and burning me to ashes like they did to the bodies. But the _Docktor_ heard about me and wanted to use me for his experiments. He said that when he used regular people, they died before he could properly study them."

"A doctor?" Britain leaned forward. "Experiments?"

Her shoulders went up and down. "They cut me open to see my insides. They cut my face apart to look at my skin. They put acid into my stomach to practice killing babies in women. They put other things inside me with needles. For a little while, they would put me in cold water until my heart stopped and then waited to see what would happen when I got warm again. They used knives to peel my skin off and waited to see what happened. They poked my eyes out to study them while they were still attached to me. They cut open my head to see my brain. Then –"

"Stop," France croaked.

Lucia stared at France for several long moments. "They did many other things to me, but after a while the _Doktor_ and his nurses started putting all of their things into bags. The soldiers and guards started killing us even faster. Then the _Doktor_ and the nurses put me in my cage and left. I was alone for a long time."

"And then what happened?" Britain asked softly.

She glanced over at him and then turned her gaze to Russia. "Then Mr. Russia came. He broke open my cage, wrapped me in his coat, and took me away."

There was the hint of what might have been the ghost of a smile in her dark eyes. "And now I am here. Now I am Lucia."

 **A/N: There you have it, Lucia's history. Don't worry, we'll be seeing much more of it in the future.**

 **Now for history:**

 **September 1939 was the glorious hour in which Hitler and his forces invaded Poland, forcing Britain and France to finally get off their nervous asses and face the whole Nazi war machine thing. Even though Poland fought hard with what he had, he was still curbstomped by Germany and went on to suffer through about six years of torture and secret policing by the Gestapo and the SS. And then there were the Cold War fun times, but I think we're getting ahead of ourselves there.**

 **Poland does recognize Lucia – there were more concentration camps in Poland than anywhere else – and knows what she is. He's the only one of Russia's houseguests/hostages/prisoners/new best friends who can really get close to her because Latvia, Lithuania, and Ukraine are known for being complicit in the rounding up and even execution of Jewish people. In one famous case in Lithuania, a group of Jewish people were rounded up, beaten to death, and then had their bodies used as a make-shift stage for some asshole with an accordion. So much for Amazing Grace or Taps.**

 **The Meeting between Russia, Poland, and Lucia, with Britain and France takes place at the Yalta Conference, the last meeting of Winston Churchill, Franklin D. Roosevelt, and Joseph Stalin. The Livadia Palace Poland mentioned is actually the place where they met.**

 **Britain is referring to Operation Market Garden, a fun little operation cooked up by Field Marshal Bernard Montgomery. It would have been a brilliant coup if it had worked, but sadly it didn't. He also mentions the Blitz, during which the Luftwaffe, Germany's air force, tried to beat Britain into submission by bombing the shit out of him. But Britain, in true damned awesome, terrible style, held firm for months by himself.**

 **The** _ **Doktor**_ **Lucia mentions is, of course, Dr. Josef Mengele. He's one of the main reasons the Hippocratic Oath exists, as well as why countries realized they should probably start setting up Ethics Boards. You can look him up if you want, but I'm too hungry and depressed by all the snow to even think about all the shit the so-called** _ **Doktor**_ **pulled.**

 **During the later 1700s, the royalty of Europe went about promoting smallpox vaccinations by having it done on themselves and, in some cases, their own heirs.**

 **Lucia's first mention of Hitler is at the ceremony in January 1929 in which he and Paul von Hindenburg were pronounced German Chancellor and German President, respectively.**

 **Lucia's retelling of her life during the Holocaust includes the opening of the Dachau concentration camp for political enemies of the Nazis, the boycotting of Jewish stores, the steady exclusion of Jewish people from normal life, and the stripping of their rights as German citizens. The sterilization of those the Nazis considered unworthy of passing on their genes, Kristallnacht, the law requiring those who were of "Jewish descent" to wear the Star of David and the shipping of Jewish people to ghettos.**

 **Life in the ghettos was designed to be as miserable as possible, with the Nazis actually orchestrating the gradual starvation of the ghettos' occupants. Then there were the mass executions. Truckloads of people and their families were brought out to remote locations (and some not-so-remote places like the field down the road), made to dig pits and then were shot. As far as I know, no one was spared; they killed children and the elderly along with everyone else.**

 **Sobibor and Treblinka-II were strictly death camps. People were brought there to be gassed, burned, and then buried.**

 **Davit is my OC of the Armenian people. In WWI, Turkey - then the Ottoman Empire - decided that it wanted to be a fully Islamic state. This was mildly inconvenient for the several million Christian Armenians living relatively peacefully there. Instead of simply banning them or giving them a one-way ticket to anywhere else, the Turks decided to test run genocide by slaughtering Armenians in their thousands. No one knows how many died during that time, but at least one and half million people "disappeared". A favorite method was simply marching the women and children into the desert and letting them die of thirst. Osvanna is the manifestation of the Armenian Genocide. She splits her time between New Jersey and Istanbul, and has trained her dogs to attack Turkey on sight.**

 **Lucia lists some of the things Josef Mengele did to her. It was a long list of things he was interested in, but if you're really curious you can look it up yourself. It's too heavy for me right now.**


	4. Chapter 3

**Another month, another chapter. A surprisingly feel-good(ish) chapter on the heels of what could be rank stupidity from the upper echelons. Oh well. No wars yet.**

 **Also, in case you haven't noticed, this is an AU fic with the addition of children. These children are the manifestation/personifications of important events in wold history. Sometimes they are "born" traditionally, but most of the time they are not. They simply appear and hold on for as long as they are able.**

Chapter 3

Russia entered the house in Krakow to the sound of tromping boots. Tossing his heavy coat to a trembling shape in the corner that might have been Latvia or Lithuania, he made his way to the sweeping staircase in what had once been the mayor's house.

He was in a very good mood; his boss had cornered the control over Easter Europe – thank God for the arrogant Americans who had not listened to the cannier British – and he had just finished dragging Hungary out of her lovely city. He smiled. He was going to have to think about expanding his house for all of the new people who would soon be moving into his home, what with Lithuania, Latvia, Estonia, Ukraine, Czechoslovakia, Bulgaria… and now Hungary.

His happy thoughts were abruptly derailed at the sound of a huge crash, not unlike a huge piece of furniture being tossed like pillow across a room, and a sharp scream followed by terrible screeching. With a bit of a sigh, the Slavic country lengthened his stride and took the stairs in four great strides.

There was no surprise when he found Lithuania (so it had been Latvia downstairs) pinned by a huge, solid oak chest of drawers while Poland grappled desperately with a howling Lucia.

" _Žudikas! Mėsininkas! Leiskite nulaužti jo kaukolę! Nešvarus Lietuvos!_ " **[Lithuanian for: "Murderer! Butcher! Let's crack his skull! Dirty Lithuanian!"]**

Blood was streaming down Toris' face as he lay mortally still on the polished floors. Feliks sobbed wildly as he desperately heaved at the girl's thrashing body.

Russia cocked his head.

Hm.

He stepped forward, grabbed Lucia's deceptively fragile-looking arm, and yanked her clear off Poland with one easy jerk. Wrapping her in the fierce grip of one elbow, the Soviet nation gave the scene in the hall and doorway a rather bored, assessing, look.

"Lithuania. I am thinking that I would like salo tonight. When you are back in one piece, you will begin dinner, _da_?"

Lithuania opened his mouth and a blood bubble grew and popped. Poland fell to his knees by his old companion's head; tears dripped down steadily onto Toris' forehead.

Russia turned and walked away.

Lucia was still fighting and screaming fluently in Lithuanian as he towed her down the hallway, humming placidly under his breath.

They reached his bedroom, he briskly kicked the door open and dumped her on the bed. "I think you and I are needing a conversation about treating my friends nicely."

"They smashed us," she ranted wildly, rocking on all fours on the bed, her fists digging into the blankets. "They beat us and killed us like animals in the street."

Things like this were happening more and more ever since he had brought her back from Yalta. She was getting confused and prone to wandering through the house at will, attacking those who stumbled into her path. She had thrown Latvia out a third floor window, pushed Ukraine down a flight of stairs… she did not seem to hate Estonia as much and only spit at him (of course, clever little Estonia had taken to staying far out of reach so maybe she simply hadn't gotten her hands on him). Even Poland wasn't always immune; she had thrown things at him, hit him, screamed at him, and once even tried to strangle him.

It had to stop. Russia just didn't have time for it. He would be bringing Hungary back in a few days, once her shattered rib cage and legs had mended enough for her to be brought back. Then sweet little Czechoslovakia would be moving in, Romania, Albania, Bulgaria, Yugoslavia… and of course, Germany and his funny big brother Prussia.

Though he didn't think they would be staying long.

But neither would Lucia. Russia had done his part – he had found her and seen that she was looked after, but she was going to have to be sent away. Let one of the other Allies take care of her.

* * *

There were explosions going off in the background. "Look, mate!" England was shouting into the telephone. "I don't have fucking time for this! I've got the sodding Siegfried Line to cope with and God knows where that bastard America is! Whatever it is, you'll have to look after it yourself!"

" _Désole, mon ami_ ," France rasped out, sounding exhausted. "Germany's lunatic of a boss has apparently sent his men into my mountains with orders not to come out until every last one of them is dead. I just do not have the time or energy to look after _chère Lucie_. Perhaps when this is over." **[French: "Sorry, my friend"]**

" _Aiya!_ Why are you calling me- _aru_?! I have too much to do! Japan is digging even deeper into my country and my bosses cannot cooperate to deal with such things- _aru_!"

"Um, hello, Russia? Hi, France said you needed help with something? What do you mean how did I get this number? I'm Cana-" Click.

Russia frowned at the phone. Who had _that_ been? It had sounded like America but whoever it had been hadn't been shouting…

Oh well, on to more pressing matters.

He refused to call America. God only knows how the fool would take seeing the child – it would probably kick his hero obsession into even higher gear.

He had called Luxembourg, but the small country had bluntly informed him he had his own problems and had hung up.

Belgium and the Netherlands had expressed interest but had had to refuse help. "I'm sorry, Russia," Belgium said softly. "But the Nazis have cut off food supplies to my brother. My boss and I have been trying to get aid in for weeks and we just don't have the resources to take on what sounds like another National Personification. Maybe Denmark? I heard Germany's boss like him, he might have extra food?"

" _Nej!_ Have you lost your mind, Cossak? Ever since that damned Nazi broke up my government we've been in chaos! I'm still technically under freaking house arrest ever since I snuck my Jews over to Sweden's place! I've got no time for whatever project you're trying to pawn off on me! And don't you dare bother Norway! He's got it even worse than me!" **["Nej!": Danish for "No!"]**

Norway's phone line had been disconnected so bothering him had been a non-issue.

He didn't think Greece had ever actually owned a phone so he was out as well.

So here he was. A major Ally – certainly the one with the greatest number of useful troops – being held back by a child causing him no end of problems and troubles. His boss was furious and was demanding he get rid of her and back to work.

But where was he supposed to send her? He could hardly leave her alone in his house with the others; they had already proven they were not up to the task.

The answer came four days later at the beginning of March.

* * *

" _Hola_ , is this _Señor Rusia_?"

" _Da_. Who is calling, please?"

" _Si_ , this is _España_. I am calling for Romano, _si_? Southern Italy?"

Ah, yes. The Pasta brothers.

"And what is the Southern Italy wanting, please?"

"Well, you see, _mi amigo_ Francis told me that you have been looking for someone to look after a young Personification you found at Poland's house. Romano was wondering if you still needed someone to take care of her."

Russia sat straighter at his desk. Lithuania (still well bandaged from the chest of drawers incident) paused in filing papers and Belarus stopped sharpening one of her many knives to listen.

"I thought that Italy was still fighting against Germany's army. Or getting in the way of the American army. Is Southern Italy so bored that he wants to take on my young guest?"

"Ah, no. Romano was hoping for, let's say, a little distraction for his _hermanito_. Northern Italy." **[Spanish: "little brother"]**

Russia's hand tightened just a tad on the phone. "Germany's little friend. Or maybe not so much friend since Italy has become an Ally and left the Axis."

There was a long sigh from Spain's side of the line. " _Amigo_ , it has been a long war and many things have happened. You know this better than I."

No arguing with that.

"Now, would it be possible for you to meet with Romano and Italy to discuss _la señorita_?"

* * *

Romano prowled through the hallways of the Galleria Borghese. He had told his stupid _fratellino_ that several of the Allies would be here today and the little _idiota_ had still refused to come out of his room.

Still sobbing over that damned potato-eating, murdering, Nazi freak. Ever since Romano had realized that fucking El Duce was doing nothing but leading them down a path that would get them all slaughtered, or, worse, occupied by that even bigger fucker, Hitler, he had worked to drag Veneziano away from the Axis and back home.

But the little idiot had refused. Even when the whole of the country had rejected El Duce and surrendered to the Allies, Veneziano had refused to leave that damned Germany. It had only been in the December after America and Britain had invaded Europe that his brother had returned.

For the rest of his life, Romano would never forget seeing his brother wander through the front door of his house in Rome. His uniform as sloppy as ever, fresh bandages on his face, his hat crooked and filthy, and his face frozen in grief and confusion.

All he had been able to say was that Germany had sent him away. The bastard had told him the war was lost. Of course, his moron of a brother hadn't cared, he would have stayed until the end – it wasn't like he was a stranger to losing wars. There had been appeals to his brother's sense of self-preservation: that Russia was going to get him, Britain was going to force him to eat his cooking… but stupid Veneziano had stayed anyway. Romano could just hear his idiot _fratellino_ 's voice "We're best friends forever, Germany! Of course, I'm not going to leave you." The stupid potato had tried to order him to leave – Romano could only imagine how that had gone over. He had yelled at Feliciano, called him useless and a coward. But still Italy had stayed loyal – because they were friends.

It had taken Germany asking as a friend to get him to leave.

It had also taken six bottles of Spanish sherry to get the story out of Veneziano. That night he had wept and sobbed so violently the story was almost undecipherable.

Apparently, on December 15th, the day before Germany's idiot leader had tried to drive the Allied Forces out of Europe, the potato-lover had finally taken Veneziano aside. He had not yelled or begged or ordered. As his brother told it, Germany had very quietly asked, in the name of their friendship (damned fucker), for him to abandon the Axis and stay safe with the Allies until it was over.

Veneziano had come through Romano's front door barely ten hours later, looking as though the world was collapsing around him. He had hugged his older brother so tightly it had left bruises and had fallen into deep painful weeping.

Weeping that hadn't stopped since that night.

Now his brother spent every day in bed staring blankly at the wall while tears streamed down his cheeks, refusing to get up to help with the government, shower, even eat. Romano had had to force him to bathe, get out of bed, even drink.

On New Year's Day, he had tried to interest his brother in a fresh bit of pasta with the best tomatoes he could find (frankly they had been shit, but in wartime you had to take what you could get), but Veneziano had stared at him with hollow eyes. "Do you think Germany's coming back, big brother? Or do you think he'll die like Holy Rome?"

Northern Italy, Romano had decided, needed a distraction. Something that was far away from government but would be engaging enough to pull his brother's attention from what was happening in the rest of Europe.

Certainly he didn't seem to have any interest in the country. Romano had only seen this when the Holy Roman Empire fell. Then his brother had shut himself in his home in Venice for so long Austria and Hungary had come and broken down the doors to see if he was still alive inside. The little idiot had barely spoken for a full decade and even then he had not seemed to fully recover until WWI.

Until Germany.

Shit.

That damned potato eater had better not die. He had fucking better stay alive.

Romano shook himself fiercely as he came to his brother's room.

Two weeks ago, Spain had come for a visit, loaded with gossip from France and the other Allies. He had told a story of a child, apparently Germany's. The little girl had been found by Russia at Poland's place and was in need of a caretaker for the rest of the war. Like, say, a depressed country abandoned by his war crazy best friend.

It would be a weight taken off the Allies' minds that they didn't have to worry about a new Personification – it would look good that Italy was contributing.

There was also the fact that if he could not convince the rest of the Allies to give the depressed country something to do, he would be stuck babying his stupid _fratellino_ until Germany came back or… well.

Well.

Anyway.

He opened the door.

Veneziano was lying on his side, facing away from the door and towards the wall. The clothes Romano had set out for him remained untouched on a nearby side table.

"Stupid _fratellino_ ," he muttered, approaching.

There was no reply.

"Come on, _idiota_ ," he said in the best big-brother voice he could summon. "The Allied Idiots are coming to see us and we need to at least think we're staying out the way."

Silence.

Romano whipped the blankets off of Veneziano and grabbed the other's arm. Then it was a matter of dragging an unresponsive body to the bathroom to clean up and get dressed. It took almost a full thirty minutes to stuff a bit of bread and jam into his brother's mouth and get him to swallow a little coffee. At last, they were sitting in the front parlor, waiting for the doorman to let the visitors in. Veneziano was sitting hunched over in an armchair, his curl drooping, while Romano stood impatiently at his side.

Finally ( _finally_ ), there was the knock on the door and their visitors entered. France, Britain, Russia and Poland came in. Russia was carrying what had to be the girl, though she was like no girl Romano had ever seen outside of a coffin or a pit of bodies to be burned, while Poland was carrying about four years' worth of clothes in several bulging suitcases.

"Good afternoon, chaps," Britain said, even as he shot look after look at the girl. "I understand that you, Italy, were interested in maybe looking after Lucia here? At least, until Germany is available to tell us a little more about her."

"Germany?" Veneziano had straightened up and was now looking at them. It was the most animation Romano had seen in him since he had come back from the front line.

"Yes, _mon frère_ ," France said with a soft smile. "We found this young lady at Poland's house… we think she might be from Germany… one of Germany's children."

Romano glanced at the girl. She was a wretched scarecrow-looking, wisp of thing, dressed in a pale lavender and cream colored dress with a matching hairband wrapped around her head. She was wearing lovely black shoes and clean white knee socks and would have looked quite normal if not for how much they had had to be taken in to account for her emaciated body. Her dark brown hair was the shortest he had seen on a girl outside of a convent, seeming less than an inch from her scalp, and her impossibly thin face seemed even whiter around her stark black eyes.

And her face.

He had never seen such an expression on anyone's – nation or human – face. Something wild, and furious, and dead…

Romano shuddered and glanced at his brother.

Veneziano was sitting upright, staring at the girl with a strange, almost hungry look. "You are from Germany?"

The girl, Lucia, spoke in a dry, tired, voice. "I am here because of what Adolf Hitler has done, and how Germany followed him."

And now his stupid little brother was sitting on the edge of his seat, fists clenched into the knees of his pants. " _Bambina_ , my name is Italia Veneziano. Would you care to tell me your name?" **[Italian: "child"]**

"Lucia," she rasped. "I am called Lucia."

Veneziano smiled so widely it was utterly ridiculous. " _Piacere_ , Lucia. Would you maybe like to come and stay with me?" **[Italian: "Nice to meet you!"]**

She didn't answer for a few long moments. "Why would you want me to go home with you?"

Northern Italy stood up and crossed the room to kneel in front of the seat Russia had placed her on. Her feet dangled less than six inches away from his knees. He did not seem to notice that Russia was literally only two feet away. He set his hands down on his knees and leaned forward slightly. "Because I need you. And I think you need me. We can be friends. I will take care of you. I can teach you how to draw and make pasta. We can sing and I'll show you all around my country…"

He paused to draw breath and she broke in. "But why? I do not understand."

Veneziano reached out gently and placed a hand on her sharp cheekbone. The girl went so still under his hand she might have stopped breathing.

"I already told you, _Gattina_. We need each other." **[Italian: "kitten"]**

"Is it because I am a part of Germany? Because I hate Germany. I hate him." The strange little face went so vicious and angry, Romano wondered if he should look into summoning an exorcist.

But his idiot _fratello_ only leaned forward and pressed his forehead to hers. "It's alright. I know Germany has done terrible things. Things that may never be forgiven. I will never ask you to forgive. I only ask that you come home with me and let me take care of you."

"You know I have nightmares. I scream and cry and throw things. I will hurt you. I will hate you. I throw up all the time. I sometimes forget to wear clothes. I forget where I am. I forget my name. I-"

Veneziano kissed her forehead and she stopped speaking. "Bella Lucia. I want you to come and stay with me. I am lonely and I know you are lonely too. Will you come and stay with me?"

No one said anything. Romano felt as though he were trapped in some bizarre fresco; Lucia looking up into his brother's face with a look of confusion and what might have been a bit of shyness. His brother looking down at her as though she were a cross between the Madonna and a plate of exquisite pasta. Britain staring between them looking utterly shocked, while France smiled in satisfaction. Russia looked on with his usual terrifying little smile. Poland watching Lucia with a sad, tired, look that made Romano's insides ache.

The seconds ticked by.

Was she going to say anything? Romano was just getting ready to demand an answer when –

A frail, spindly hand reached up and grasped the hand laid on her cheek. "I think I would like that."

 **A/N1: Poor Italy, grabbing onto any reminder of Germany that he can. Maybe he can learn to love Lucia for her own sake.**

 **A/N2: Thank you for reading through my work! Thanks to those following my story. And thank you to the person who left me a review - though, next time, I would like a review that's more than "I love the research you've put into this but I can't get behind your premise". Thank you anyway for giving me your time, but that wasn't an entirely helpful review in terms of improving my writing. Also, apologies for responding publicly, but you are a guest so I can't respond privately.**

 **A/N3: I hope everyone is having a Happy Passover, a Happy Easter, or a good weekend. See you in one month.**

 _ **History lesson time! Fasten your seatbelts for intrigue and the insanity of humanity!**_

 _ **On February 13, 1945, The Soviet forces took Hungary's capital city of Budapest after a 50-day siege. A large group of Hungarian soldiers and their German allies tried to escape the city to continue fighting elsewhere, but they were caught and captured by the Soviets. Hungary, of course, refused to leave her city and fought 'til the bitter end. And until Russia finally just beat her into unconsciousness.**_

 _ **This was just a part of the Soviet Union's plan to retake as much of Eastern Europe as possible to surround itself with as many puppet communist countries as possible. Russia ended up with quite a few houseguests; I'm thinking it made for some crowded, and awkward, family get-togethers. Not that it ended particularly well, but it was a plan that worked… at least until it didn't.**_

 _ **Remember last chapter's history note where it was mentioned that in one Lithuanian town, citizens drove their Jewish neighbors into the town square and proceeded to beat them death, after which some guy with an accordion stood on the bodies to play a merry little tune? Well… Lucia does. She really does.**_

 _ **In my AU, as a Personification/Manifestation starts to settle into itself as an individual, the different aspects and memories of what it represents are assimilating into that individual's memories and experiences. So Lucia is taking in everything that is going, or has, gone on, in the Holocaust and related events and they are becoming a part of her, all of which has made her even more unstable.**_

 _ **Radomir, as I have mentioned before, is my OC for St. Petersburg/Moscow. He is a Personification/Manifestation because of the struggle that the Russians went through to win the land from Sweden and the shit they had to go through to build the damn city – really, it was intense, just look up the history of the city.**_

 _ **Also, the Pyotr Russia mentions is Peter the Great, a famous Tsar of Russia.**_

 _ **British soldiers were busy fighting their way across France and Germany when they hit the Siegfried Line, which was a defensive line of bunkers and obstacles set up by the Germans. As I understand it, the Germans would strategically retreat each time the Allies would beat them bloody, then make them do the same thing again and again.**_

 _" **Alex" is actually Alexander, my OC for the alliance between America and Britain. He began taking space during the Great Rapprochement, when America and Britain finally started talking to each other without trying to toss each other out of windows and down stairs. He officially took shape around WWI and splits his time between his dads' houses, but at this particular moment in WWII, he is fighting his way through Italy with the American army.**_

 _ **Even though the Allies had technically "freed" France from Nazi rule, there was still a healthy number of German soldiers still in France that had to found and defeated. Definitely kept the French Resistance and Free French Army busy.**_

 _ **China was having his own difficulties with Japan. Add to that he was having trouble with the growing Communist faction coming into conflict with the existing government over the tactics to use. Many historians believe that this inability of the Chinese government to balance the different views of the higher-ups led to the unnecessary deaths of thousands of soldiers and civilians.**_

 _ **Canada is often forgotten in WWII. But let's not forget how much ass they kicked and how much flack they took from the time they landed on D-Day with the other Allies and how fiercely they fought. Netherlands certainly hasn't. Just ask the tons of tulips he still sends Canada every year.**_

 _ **Luxembourg was one of the main battlegrounds for the Battle of Bulge, which killed many of his citizens and destroyed quite a few of his towns. Basically, he was in full damage control until about May 1945 when life started to go back to normal for him and his citizens.**_

 _ **Due to the fierce Dutch resistance efforts, as well as the support liberating Allies had received from the Dutch citizens, The Nazis had decided that the Dutch should be punished via starvation. They refused to provide more food when the food the Dutch had stored for the Winter of 1944 ran out. At least 18,000 people died of starvation and the number would almost certainly have been much higher if not for the food provided by the Allies, most notably the Canadians, in May 1945. Until then, the Dutch were subsisting on flour smuggled in from other countries and air dropped food packages.**_

 _ **Denmark was actually quite liked by Hitler, due to his Viking history and his people's tendency towards blond hair, blue eyes, and those other Aryan traits he believed to be so important. This came to a halt when the Nazis demanded all Resistance members and saboteurs be put to death and the Nazis took total control of the Danish government. It also didn't help that the Danish people as almost a collective whole helped to smuggle their Jewish neighbors across the North Sea into Sweden where they would be safe. More than 90% of Danish Jews survived WWII, compared to the 10% of Polish Jews who survived.**_

 _ **The Norwegian people were subject to harsh economic repression and many were deprived of food. It is especially famous for the activity of its Resistance, which frequently sabotaged trains, submarine building, and the development of Germany's nuclear energy department.**_

 _ **Greece was the Nazis' whipping boy. Germany was not particularly impressed that Greece had been hurting his friend Italy and thus imposed harsh treatment on the Greeks. The Nazi occupation trashed the Greek occupation (which came back to bite Germany hard in the ass), destroyed most of the country's infrastructure, and killed thousands of civilians.**_

 _ **After Italy's army had taken Ethiopia, the population was pretty content to rest on that conquest and not go any further. But once Germany was busy kicking asses across Europe, Benito Mussolini decided to get in on the action. Italy himself was happy to be with his best friend, but Romano and the rest of the Italian people weren't so onboard with another war. And once things started getting really bad (cough-Stalingrad-cough), Italians really wanted out of the war. On October 1943, the overall Italian government officially became an Ally, turning its back on Germany and the Axis. Of course, a great deal of Italians still wanted to stay with the Germans, leading to a Civil War between the two Italys. Romano was not pleased.**_

 _ **On December 16, 1944, Nazi forces stormed through the Allied line in the Ardennes forest in what would become the Battle of the Bulge. The Battle of the Bulge was a fairly useless gesture on the part of the Germans; there were simply too many Allied soldiers to drive out by that point and the Germans just didn't have the strength or resources to do the job. To give them their due, they certainly gave the Americans hell, but once the weather improved, the Germans were completely driven out by the Allied tanks and air forces.**_

 _ **Germany was well aware of the overall futility of the plan and knew the war was over. So he told Italy to get out while he still could.**_


	5. Chapter 4

**To those of you reading this, my deepest apologies. The months of April and May sucked. I had one grandparent suffer a stroke, and another die from being totally done with life in general. I switched jobs, had to suddenly buy a new car because my old one crapped out, and now a new semester of class is starting because of course I'm taking summer courses to make myself crazy.**

 **I haven't even had much time to bemoan the path of the country. Though the snippets I have seen are too horrifying for words.**

 **Not too much plot advancement in this chapter. More Italy and Lucia getting to know each other. But believe you me, this was a hard as hell chapter to complete on top of everything else.**

Chapter 4

The weeks following Lucia's arrival at the old Italian palace were filled with conflict and the scrambling to settle the child into her new home, all of which was complicated by the obvious damage to Lucia's body and mind.

 _The second night of Lucia's stay, Romano had made what he derisively called 'shitty ziti', in which he added everything he could reasonably add to the basic marinara sauce and ziti pasta: vegetables and spices, and other things he would not speak of._

 _Lucia had eaten half a helping, barely half a cup… and thrown it all up within five minutes._

 _Red… slop… splattered onto her clothes and the table, then dripped down onto the floor._

 _Italy yelped. "Oh, no! Lucia, are you feeling alright?!"_

"Idiota! _" Romano roared. "How could you give her so much! You are in so much trouble – a shit storm like you've_ never _seen!"_

 _And then he banged his fist on the table._

 _His eyes and anger was totally directed at his brother; he wasn't even looking at their new guest._

 _But Lucia was staring at him, the whites of her eyes visible all around her black irises, with the look of a rabbit just noticing a fox within lunging distance. She gave the huge, ancient, butcher block table a mighty shove into the man's chest, sending him – and the three hundred pound table – crashing to the floor._

 _She grabbed Italy's wrist, and dragged him out of the room. Sprinting around the halls like a bat fleeing hell, she found the stairs to the second floor and hauled them both upstairs. Skidding around corners, she found an empty bedroom and dove under the bed, still pulling him behind her, to hide behind the bedclothes._

 _As they lay there, the smell of her vomit pungent in the air, Italy heard her as she began to babble raggedly: "_ Verstecken muss. Sie werden uns weh tun. Sie schneiden und öffnen. Uns Haut. Verstecken muss. Lassen Sie sich nicht von uns finden. _"_ _ **[German: "Must hide.**_ _ **They'll hurt us. They'll cut us open. Skin us . Must hide. Don't let them find us."]**_

"Bambina _," he said. "It's alright. Romano was just scared that he had made you sick. He's not mad at you. He's not going to hurt you."_

 _Her whole body was trembling – she was squeezing his wrist so hard his bones were almost grinding together._

"Bambina _," he tried again. "_ Bella Lucia _, you're not back at the bad place. You are here with us. We're here to help you. We're going to keep you safe. We will never hurt you."_

 _Still nothing._

 _Then, very slowly, Lucia inched closer to him until her knee brushed his side. When she finally began to nod off, she plastered herself against him, turning her head so her face was buried in his shoulder. She never showed any disgust to be lying in her own vomit under the bed all night._

 _It was past midnight when Italy finally managed to coax her out so he could give her a bath and clean up the now dried sick all over her clothes and caked on the floors and walls of the house._

 _Romano had four broken ribs. The butcher table had lost a leg._

 _Lucia had refused to be left alone with Romano for a week._

* * *

There were times of brightness and happiness.

 _Italy hurried out into the soft late-March sunshine, laden down with several blankets in one arm and two baskets cradled very carefully in the other. The gardens of the Galleria Borghese were already beginning to show signs of a lush summer, pale green bulbs and delicate fresh leaves peeking out from everywhere._

 _He couldn't help but smile at it all as he walked past the hedges and the flower plots, all showing strong spring growth, and towards the fountain at the center. It was a lovely, charming, bit of white marble, but it was the little nymph sitting at its base that he was interested in._

 _Lucia was sitting quietly on the ground, waiting for him. He had carefully made her as cozy an area as he could, with blankets and pillows all tucked around her. Staring up at him, with her great dark eyes and her fuzzy dark head of hair, surrounded by warmth and comfort, she looked like a baby bird._

 _But just to be safe, Italy took a few moments to tuck his new blankets around her. "How's that,_ bambina _? Are you still cold?"_

 _The child wound spindly fingers around the edge of the blanket. "No. I'm not cold."_

 _Her Italian was perfect, though she had a strange accent that came and went as her mood took her. Sometimes she spoke in a Polish accent, a Russian accent, a Lithuanian accent._

 _A German accent…_

 _Lucia's voice cut into his thoughts. "You are thinking about him again."_

 _Italy jumped and refocused on the girl before him. "Sorry,_ bambina _? What did you say?"_

 _Dark eyes burned into him. "You are thinking about the Nazi again."_

 _He gave her a small smile. "Si,_ Bella Lucia _. I am remembering my friend Germany."_

 _Her hands gave a little spasm on the edges of the blanket she clutched. "Is he coming here?"_

" _No. Germany is busy at his house. And anyway, you don't need to worry about that today! I brought you out here to have a little picnic!"_

 _A look of confusion. "What is a picnic?"_

 _He beamed around the sharp ache in his chest, and set one of the baskets between them. "That is what your lesson for today is!"_

 _Assuming a professorial air, he opened up the basket and began pulling out bits of food. "Now, it is very important that you remember that normal picnics have more, and much better food than I have here. Before the war we used to have meat and sweats, pastries, real bread and good cheese, fruits, yoghurt and milk…"_

 _Lucia's eyes were getting bigger and bigger as he set out half a loaf of bread, a chunk of cheese, a slab of meat, several apples, a bottle of milk and a few slices of cake. From the awe on her face, she didn't seem to notice the bread was stale and coarse, the so-called bacon was horse meat, the cheese was old and hard, the apples a little withered, the milk weak and watery, and the cake little better than crackers._

 _She stared at the meager fare as though it were feast. Italy found himself a bit uncomfortable as she gaped, so he hurried on to lay out plates and utensils, cups and napkins. He heard himself rambling promises of proper picnics once the war was over, with more people and games and…_

 _It was only as she accepted an embroidered napkin and a plate that she seemed to shake herself out of her awe. She interrupted him. "Is it okay that you brought out so much food?"_

 _He laughed lightly. "Of course, bambina! This is just for us! There's even enough if Romano comes to eat with us!"_

 _That was stretching the truth a bit, but he was determined that she would get as much to eat as she wanted. Of course, there was always the chance her stomach would decide such rich food was too much and she would throw up everything. Poland had told them she had fallen into several comas after heavier meals, leading to erratic heartbeats, and episodes of her not breathing._

 _But… last night Italy had found her flipping through one of his photo albums and she had stopped on the pictures Germany had taken of one of the picnics the Axis countries had had in Tuscany and then the German countryside. The look on her face had been so sad and thoughtful…_

 _Well, there hadn't been much of a choice after that._

" _But there's something else that is just for you!"_

 _She blinked up at him. "Just for me?"_

 _Very carefully, he held up the second basket and set it directly in her lap. "Yes,_ Gattina _. For you."_ **["Gattina": Italian for "kitten"]**

 _Lucia glanced between him and the basket several times before carefully easing the cover of the basket._

 _And then she stopped._

 _Looked up at him._

 _Then looked down again._

 _As a fuzzy little head poked its head over the edge of the basket and meowed. Then another head. And then a third._

" _I hope you like kitties."_

* * *

There were days when she was blatantly frightening.

 _Lucia was sitting in front of the fireplace in a nest of blankets, sketching fiercely as her kittens snoozed against her side, while Romano scribbled through page after page of government papers at the coffee table, grumbling about Mussolini, and Italy drowsed in an armchair. It was pouring rain outside, but the sitting room was warm and cozy._

 _Two of the kittens, grey and black tabbies, suddenly fell into an impromptu match, jostling their sibling, a black creature with white paws and a white chin. The disturbed fuzzball let out a very plaintive meow and began trying to find another, quieter, place to nap._

" _Micha_ _ł_ _! Marek!" Lucia scolded, flapping a hand at them. "Stop fighting!"_

 _Italy blinked heavy eyelids. "So you've named them! What about that one?"_

 _He pointed at the black and white one, now trying to scramble into Lucia's lap._

" _Her name is Zivia."_

 _Romano now looked over. "What kinds of names are those?"_

 _Lucia scooped up the climbing kitten and deposited it into her lap, where it immediately began flailing around to find the most comfortable spot. "They were people in the Warsaw ghetto. They fought in the uprising."_

 _She tickled the kitten's wiggling paws. "They reminded the Nazis we are alive. We are more than numbers on their lists. They shot the Nazis like the Nazis shot us. Like animals."_

 _A frown furrowed her brow even as she played with her pet. "They should have found ways to gas them. That's what the Nazis were sending them to, anyway."_

 _Italy hurriedly sat up, but Romano spoke before he could say anything. "Gas?"_

" _At Treblinka. Where I was. They send you to the showers. And then you die."_

 _The two men stared at her. Then Romano whipped a frosty, trembling, glare to Italy._

" _What the fuck is she talking about, bastardo?"_

 _Lucia spoke up again. "I drew a picture. Come see."_

 _So Romano and Italy came over and knelt beside her as she flipped through her pages until she came to a series of black and white drawings. "Here."_

 _Lovino took the book in his hands and began paging through._

 _Stark black outlines of writhing bodies. Mouths drawn open, gasping for air. Bodies lying under the feet of others. Hands clawing at walls. Women cowering over babies._

 _Italy had tears trickling down his cheeks. Romano's jaw was clenched so tight a muscle was twitching in his cheek._

 _Finally, the manifestation of Southern Italy slammed the book closed on the drawing of a woman holding up a baby over a fighting mob, her face an image of despair._

" _What," he began shakily. "The fuck. Is this."_

" _That one was Rifka and Shmuel. I met them during my first fake shower at Treblinka, but they died and I didn't."_

 _The girl stared for a long moment at her sketchpad before she turned her eyes to Romano. "They should have made those Nazis take a shower. Washed the blood off of them with poison. Justice for Rifka and Shmuel and the others."_

" _Dolce, santa, cazzo Madre di Dio," Romano breathed._ _ **["Sweet, holy, fucking Mother of God"]**_

 _Lucia cocked her head at him, slight disapproval clear on her features. "You shouldn't curse in front of children."_

* * *

And there were always the nightmares.

 _Veneziano hurried through the hallways of his fratello's home. Around him, a high-pitched scream was waking up the whole house again, tearing through the nighttime silence like a discordant siren._

"Inferno cazzo _!" came the sound of Romano bursting out of his room, his door slamming against the wall._ _"Ancora! Qualcuno ha bisogno di fare qualcosa per quel marmocchio maledetta!"_ **["Fucking hell!" and "Enough! Someone needs to take care of that damned brat!"]**

 _Italy ignored this and made his way to the second best room in the house. It had been his room, but their guest deserved the best he could give her._

 _The shrieking was dying away now, but, as he neared the carved oak door, he could hear choking gasps and rasping sobs._

 _Skidding to a halt in front of his charge's door, he hastily pounded three times on the door. "Lucia!_ Bambina _, I'm coming in!"_

 _Without waiting for an answer, he wrenched open the door._

 _The antique bed sat empty in the room, its bedclothes and bed curtains shredded right down to the mattress. But Italy was more concerned about the lack of a small body curled up amidst the wreckage._

" _Lucia?" he called again, glancing around._

 _The chairs and desk had been overturned and several pictures were lying scattered and smashed on the floor. No one was under the bed, hiding in the window curtains, or behind any of the furniture._

 _Italy stood in the center of the room and snapped his head back and forth – he could hear the harsh breathing and stifled sobs of a terrified child, but where –_

 _Ah._

 _The wardrobe was ajar._

 _He crossed the floor and rapped very lightly on the door. "Lucia?_ Tesora _, are you in there?"_ **["Tesora": "treasure/precious"]**

"Es sind die Duschen. Sie sind für uns im Dunkeln gekommen. Die Duschen Das Gas. Die Dunkelheit _."_ **["It's the showers. They came for us in the dark. The showers. The gas. The dark."]**

 _Italy had to blink back tears at the high, sobbed words._

" _Sie öffnen die Türen nicht, bis wir tot sind. Öffnen_ _sich! Jeder ist tot!"_ **["They don't open the doors until we are dead. Open up! Everyone is dead!"]**

 _Hot tears trickled past his nose. "Lucia, die Duschen und das Gas sind weit weg. Erinnerst du dich nicht Du bist hier in Rom mit mir."_ **["Lucia, the showers and the gas are far away.** **Don't you remember? You're here in Rome with me."**

 _The German was clumsy and strange in his mouth, but he had spent a long time learning each word until Germany was satis – he cut that thought off immediately. It was still too painful to remember._

 _In any case, his ward seemed to have understood him._ _"Feliciano? Was machst du hier?  
_ _Haben sie Sie auch?"_ **["Feliciano? What are you doing here? Did they get you, too?"**

 _Italy answered back in his own tongue. "No,_ bambina _, you and I are here in Rome, remember? At my big brother's house?"_

 _He sensed, rather than saw, movement inside the wardrobe._ _"Nein. Ich bin hier in Treblinka. Die Körper sind hier. Du bist hier._ _Hier sind wir."_ **["No. I'm here in Treblinka. The bodies are here. You are here. Here we are."**

" _No,_ carina _. There are no bodies here. Only you and me."_

 _Her voice grew high again, cracking and croaking at once. "Wir sin_ _d umgeben von den Toten, Feliciano. Sie sind überall. Es gibt keine Luft mehr, Feliciano. Feliciano, wo bist du?_ _Es gibt keine Luft! Wo bist du?!"_ **["We are surrounded by the dead, Feliciano. They are everywhere. There's no more air, Feliciano. Feliciano, where are you? There's no air! Where are you?!"]**

 _Now she was struggling between screams and hyperventilating. There was the sound of fists banging on the inside of the wardrobe as the girl's sounds of distress grew more and more hysterical._ _"Es gibt keine Luft. Feliciano, haben sie uns mit den Toten gesperrt._ _Es gibt keine Luft. Keine Luft. Keine Luft..."_ **["There is no air. Feliciano, they locked us up with the dead. There is no air. No air. No air…"**

 _Italy had had enough; he threw open the doors of the wardrobe._

 _Little dresses and coats had been dragged off their hangers to lie in bright heaps on the floor of the furniture piece. There was an especially large pile in the back corner, covering the form of a tiny, naked, thrashing little girl._

" _Oh, Lucia."_

 _The Mediterranean country snatched up his ward, wrapping her up in a sizable layer of loose clothes to protect himself against her frenzied resistance._

" _It's alright,_ bambina _," he babbled as he heaved her across the room. "It's alright, you're safe. I'm here. I will keep you safe."_

 _Staggering over to the nearest window, he clawed at the latches that kept the windows closed until they released and flew open with a sharp clack. Then, gasping with exertion, he hoisted up the screaming, gasping, fighting bundle in his arms up to the window._

" _Look, Lucia! Look at the sky! Look at the stars!_

" _Breathe in the air!"_

 _And he saw those wide, black eyes focus on the world outside the window, taking in the buildings, the bustling jeeps of American soldiers and the people hurrying around below. There was a great, shuddering gasp, as though the child was trying to draw in all of the oxygen in the city._

" _Lucia?"_

 _Lucia turned her face very slowly back to look up at him. "There's no moon tonight, Feliciano."_

 _Back to Italian, then. Good._

" _That's right,_ bambina _, only the stars." He chuckled. "Not that you can see the stars, of course, with all of the searchlights."_

" _I like the lights. They keep the Monsters and their planes away. The lights keep us safe."_

 _Italy hugged the girl tightly. "Si, bambina. We are safe."_

 _The screaming fits and night terrors were a nightly occurrence. When she couldn't sleep she would wander naked through the house, and he would often find her the next morning standing stark naked staring out a window, visible to everyone who would care to look inside. She snarled when woken and was prone to convulsions. Twice, she had gone rigid without warning and fallen to the ground to writhe on the floor. It was at these times that she would gasp out words in a multitude of different languages. She could throw almost anything she could grab hold of: books, pillows, pieces of furniture, vases…_

 _But she was beautiful and sensitive in her own way. So sad and broken._

 _She had needed someone to love her. To care for her…_

 _And Veneziano had needed something to love. Something to care for…_

 _Germany… Ludwig… he had looked after Ludwig. Dear, proud, Ludwig, who was so young. Who did not understand the reality of war, for all his training and ferocity. Who had thought it would be a good and wonderful thing to seize back what others had taken._

 _Like Holy Rome. So like that sweet child._

 _Italy had been thinking on his childhood sweetheart more and more ever since that awkward dinner with Germany. The one that had ended with Germany staggering away in a daze, leaving the heliotropes on the table and him clutching the little velvet box with the funny ring._

 _The memories had become even more painful when Germany had sent him away._

 _Even now, Italy could not remember that evening without sobbing:_

 _Germany standing in the middle of what was left of his boss' office. His head was bandaged and one arm was held up in a sling. The once proud walk was devolving into a painful limp._

 _Desperation stood out starkly in his friend's blue eyes. "If we were ever friends, Italy, you must leave now. Go home to your brother. For now we must be enemies. And whatever happens to me, know that I do not regret, I have never regretted, being your friend. Being with you. But now you cannot be with me. You cannot shoulder the burden I have put on myself – what I have done. So now you must go. Go as my friend, Italy, please. God willing, we shall see each other again."_

 _Then there had been a moment in which Italy had wished for nothing else but to stay. Stay with Germany when he needed help; stay, like he hadn't done when Holy Rome had needed help. Stay until the end._

 _But Germany had asked him as a friend – and Italy could never have denied him, especially when his friend had looked so tired and hopeless. So Italy had left._

 _He left his best friend alone in the middle of his capitol and its damaged streets. Alone with a boss who was proving himself to be more and more deranged, ordering his men – and his country – to counterattack in the miserable cold of the Ardennes Forest._

 _Germany didn't even have Prussia with him, the albino desperately trying to keep Russia away from their borders._

 _But Germany had asked._

 _And before Italy died, faded away… became no more… he was going to do as a friend asked him – begged him to._

 _So he had left._

 _Had let his best and dearest friend walk away into a dark and terrifying war that he knew in his guts wouldn't end well._

 _Just as it had been with Holy Rome…_

 _And now here he was with Lucia, staring out the window at the searchlights lighting up the night sky. Wondering about Germany and trying not to think about his own nightmares of his best friend choking on his own blood on a battlefield somewhere._

" _You're crying, Feliciano." Lucia brushed a hand against his cheek. "Are you remembering the Nazi?"_

" _My friend, Germany, Lucia. I am remembering Germany."_

 **A/N: Not my greatest work, I apologize. The next chapter is underway, though and I fully intend to have it finished and uploaded by the 17** **th** **of June.**

 _ **What is now known as refeeding syndrome was coming into the medical limelight during 1945 for the Allied Forces as they began finding survivors from concentration camps or just displaced or suffering civilians. When Allied soldiers saw these hungry people, their first instinct was to offer food, however, trying to feed a person who has been starving for extended periods of time is a tricky and sensitive thing. Too much and the person is liable to go into a coma and die, as his or her own body goes into shock from the sudden reintroduction of food. Symptoms included: vomiting, loss of consciousness, joint swelling, fluid retention, difficulty breathing, delirium, confusion, heart problems, and death. Many, many refugees and concentration camp survivors died from this, even after they were liberated. Lucia has an ongoing case of this due to the high amount of starvation still present in her people.**_

 _ **Lucia's rambling is a callback to the experiments done in Auschwitz – though skinning people was more in fashion at Bergen-Belsen than at Auschwitz.**_

 _ **Lucia's kittens are named for Marek Edelman, Micha**_ _ **ł**_ _ **Klepfisz, and Zivia Lubetkin. All fought in the Warsaw Ghetto uprising, a conflict in 1943 in which a large group of the Jewish prisoners at the Warsaw Ghetto staged a large scale resistance movement as the Nazis began the final transportation of the Jewish population to Treblinka. Treblinka, which, as Lucia has mentioned before, is a place where people only went to die. Ms. Lubetkin and Mr. Edelman were two of the 42 who actually managed to escape. Mr. Klepfisz was one of the 13,000 killed as the Nazis burned, shot, and destroyed anyone or anything in their way of loading up the occupants of the Warsaw Ghetto to their deaths. Approximately 56,885 men, women, and children were deported to Treblinka – most of them were probably dead within 36 hours of arriving to the camp.**_

 _ **As mentioned before, Germany has fully embraced his house's collapse under Hitler and, as such, made Italy leave. While all this is going on, Germany is busy with the Western Front, trying to deal with Britain, America and France, all of whom are out for victory. Prussia is busy with in the East with Russia, who's out for blood and revenge. In case, you're wondering, Prussia was already pretty sure they had lost when the German army stalled against the Russians at Stalingrad as winter set in. He was officially sure when the Allies managed to drive Rommel's forces out of Africa and begin invading Sicily.**_

 _ **Yes, Buon San Valentino reference. Not the last one, either.**_


	6. Chapter 5

**Back on schedule. Yay for me, and boo for a certain orange man in a white house. Is "he (she or they) is (are) lying" the only comeback you know? That doesn't work in third grade, and it doesn't work in the office of one the most powerful positions in the world – get over it and start telling the truth.**

 **Now, onto more practical matters: A solemn thank you to all those brave souls who, 72 years and 11 days ago, risked (and gave) their lives and limbs when they stormed the beaches of Normandy and began the arduous task of driving Nazi Germany into the grave.**

 **I hope you enjoy the chapter:**

Chapter 5

 _The room was huge and dark. The walls were heavy concrete._

 _People cried and yelled as they stumbled inside._

 _Naked bodies pressed together._

 _More and more._

 _Bare limbs knocked her against the wall._

 _She was pinned to the wall by straining, panicking bodies._

 _So dark._

 _There was no room._

 _Her face was pressed to cold walls._

 _The doors closed._

 _The screaming started._

 _The bodies began falling._

 _The screaming began to stop._

 _There was no room for the bodies to fall down._

 _Death was silent._

 _Except for one high, terrible wail that would not stop._

* * *

She woke with a sob.

Her breath was harsh and heavy in her throat and chest.

Heavy weights were draped on her body.

Bodies. Limbs.

She leapt up.

And found herself standing upright on a large bed with tangled bedsheets. Thick bed curtains surrounded her in soft shadows.

Oh.

She wasn't in the showers. She was in her bed at Feliciano's house.

Feliciano.

She crawled to the edge of the bed and pulled aside the bed curtains. The pale moonlight cast the room in shadows, but she knew every chair, every chest of drawers, every wardrobe, every piece of furniture, and slipped out of the room in her bare feet.

The halls were silent; statues stood in niches along the walls, with the windows casting silvery light onto the gleaming marble floors.

She slipped through the great halls and then down a small passageway. It was as she was turning the corner that she heard the soft mew.

She arrived at Feliciano's room with her arms full of three squirming kittens.

Feliciano was asleep when she opened the door. He stayed asleep when she released Marek, Michał, and Zivia onto the top blanket. He rolled over when she climbed up herself, but did not wake up.

He only opened his eyes when she slithered under the blankets and reached out to take his hand.

"Good night, Bella Lucia," Feli whispered.

Lucia brought his hand to her cheek and snuggled into the mattress.

She didn't wake up again until sunrise.

* * *

Romano rolled over in bed and froze as he hit another body.

Feliciano hardly ever stayed the night in his bed anymore, preferring to stay with Lucia. And Lucia was more likely to be hiding under his bed than trying to climb into bed with him – if she came to him at all. As this ruled out two of the only three people in the world that would sneak into his bed, that left only one person – one particular bastard idiot.

He peaked under the blanket.

Yup.

"What the fuck are you doing in my bed, Tomato _Bastardo_?!" he snarled, kneeing the Spanish State out of his bed.

"Ai!" Spain cried as he crashed to the floor, forehead first. For a moment, he lay on the ground, tailbone in the air and groaning, before shooting up again, a stupidly cheerful smile all over his stupidly cheerful face.

" _Buenos días, Romano_!" **[Spanish: "Good morning, Romano"]**

Romano growled and shoved his face close to the beaming man. "What. The fuck. Are you. Doing. In. My. Bed."

"Boss Spain was keeping you company, Romano!" Spain positively chirped, turning so he could press their cheeks together.

A rush of electricity shot down his spine and for a moment he warred with himself between the urge to sink against his former guardian's body and the urge to punch him in the kidneys and kick him in the groin.

He compromised by punching him in the solar plexus and cursing in several languages.

Spain sat on the ground, half-hunched over, but still smiling, and waited for him to finish. The instant Romano paused to take a breath, he jumped in. "It's been a long time since I made you churros and brought you real _café con leche_ , so I thought I would come and make you and _Italia y la niña_ breakfast!" **[Spanish: "coffee with milk" and "Italy and the girl"]**

Romano huffed and threw himself back onto the bed, crossing his arms haughtily across his chest. "Well, then, _bastardo_ , hurry up and get started! I'm starting to feel hungry!"

The familiar, cheerful, face appeared over him and a light kiss dropped on his forehead. Before he could begin a protest, lips were suddenly at his ear, moving in a softest whisper. "Francis sent me a note for you and your brother. You should check under your pillow."

A kiss on his cheek, and Spain was gone.

* * *

Spain was in the middle of carefully melting the dark chocolate – Romano's favorite, of course – for the churros when a tiny child came in from the garden. He blinked at her, still stirring the chocolate.

" _Hola._ "

The girl stopped abruptly and stared up at him, eyes huge. Her limbs were slightly less skeletal than they had been in March when he had last seen her, and her hair was almost long enough to flop down onto her forehead. She was in a lovely lacey little nightgown with a length of pale blue ribbon tied at her throat. Beneath the lace her feet were bare and dirty.

" _Ni_ _ñ_ _a? Sientes bien_?" **[Spanish: "Girl?** **Do you feel okay/Are you feeling okay?"]**

She turned and fled the room, her bare feet leaving muddy prints on the ground.

Now Spain was totally turned around, staring after her. " _Ni_ _ñ_ _a_?"

Should he be going after her?

He had always gone after Romano when he ran off… but he was making this for Romano…

 _Ay!_ What a mess.

For the next few minutes, Spain hurried to melt the chocolate and place it into the bowl and place it carefully in the warm oven so it would not harden. He was just closing up the oven and covering up the freshly made churros with a towel when she returned.

Her white nightgown was now streaked with mud, and a splotch of dirt was caked on her cheek. She held something behind her back.

Spain blinked. Then again.

And again.

"Lucia?"

She was staring up at him, her face alight with…

Awe?

Amazement?

What?

He knelt before her.

" _Mija_ , what is wrong? Are you alright?" **[Spanish: "dear"]**

That's when she brought out the handful of flowers she had been hiding behind her back. A tiny little bouquet of Daphne flowers held together with a pale blue ribbon, every blossom carefully arranged.

"For you. For you. I want to give this to you," the child babbled, standing there in a filthy, torn, nightgown, her eyes hungry on his face.

" _Gracias, querida…_ " he said, taking the flowers carefully. "But what is this for?" **[Spanish: "Thank you, dear…"]**

"You took us. You kept us safe. _Ellos son Españoles_." She had grabbed onto his hand and was rocking slightly. "Do you remember?" **[Spanish: "They are Spaniards."]**

Spain sat down on the kitchen floor and ran his fingers over the purple flowers. " _Sí, yo recuerdo_." **[Spanish: "Yes, I remember."]**

And he did remember. He remembered people running through the French countryside, speeding down the road, all fleeing from the Nazis, trying to hide in his country. He remembered terrified men and women stopped within miles on his borders and dragged away. Often shot on the spot.

He remembered a group of the refugees run desperately towards him, gasping for breath, as Gestapo officers chased them, waving rifles and pistols in the air. One of them – a young woman – stumbled and fell. Her dark curls spilled in the grass. And then, just as the first Nazi reached out to grab her, the woman produced a handgun, shoved the barrel into her mouth, and shot the back of her head out. He had watched as the body collapsed. Watched the dead woman's companions stagger onto his land and weep and rage, slamming their fists down in his dirt.

Spain had gone out later to retrieve her body and had buried her in one of his favorite olive tree groves, setting up a small stone headstone with an engraved Star of David and the words: " _Aquí es una hija de Dios. Que en paz descanse_." **[Spanish: "Here is a daughter of God. Rest in peace."**

" _Yo recuerdo_ ," he said again. **[Spanish: "I remember"]**

Lucia lay her cheek on the hand that was holding onto his. She kept her eyes on his face. " _Yo también_." **[Spanish: "Me, too."]**

And that's how Romano found them: Spain kneeling on the floor holding a bundle of flowers, with Lucia streaked in mud holding onto him.

With two trails of muddy footprints going in and out of the room.

* * *

"She looks better," Antonio commented, reclining lazily on the bed as they prepared for the day's siesta. " _La niña_." **[Spanish: "The girl."]**

Romano huffed as he tugged off his pants. "Feli's been feeding her enough. He makes her whatever she wants…"

He shuddered. "Last week he made her potato soup. Potatoes! Fucking potatoes!"

Spain smiled up at his former ward as the younger man ranted as he tossed his shirt on the ground.

"She yanks flowers up out of the ground. She doesn't sleep through the night… She draws… terrible things…"

"She is a child who has seen terrible things. For all that she is younger than any of us, she has seen the same kind of horrors."

Lovino sent him a sharp look. "What's with all this wise crap you're spouting? Stop it, you're creeping me out, you _bastardo_!"

His companion looked at him with the eyes of a centuries old empire. " _Cariño_ … you know what she is. And I know you have an idea of what made her." **[Spanish: "Sweetie"]**

Romano turned away, tore off his shirt, balled it up, and threw it to the ground. He thought about Lucia kneeling in the dirt, tearing up the daisies, babbling about flowers growing from the dead. She often threw full-scale fits when Veneziano tried to give her a bath, punching holes in the wall and hiding under the bed for hours. Loud noises were likely to make her run away or fight like a caged leopard.

And those drawings. Monochromatic. Bleak. Eyes that were either dead or desperate. Hands that clawed wildly or curled limply.

Just the thought of those images made him feel like curling into Spain's chest and hiding for a few decades.

But that would give the stupid idiot the wrong (right) idea, so he finished pulling off his boxers and flopped onto his bed.

"Maybe. She liked you, though."

Spain was crawling into the bed, his shirt tossed to the ground to lay beside Romano's clothes. " _S_ _í_ _._ The flowers she gave me were _muy bonita_." **[Spanish: "very pretty"]**

Romano snuggled his head down into the pillow and glared up at the other man. "And what made her give flowers to you, _bastardo_? If I found out you were pulling your smooth Latin lover shit on her –"

"No, Lovi… she recognized me because I took in a lot of the people who were running away from Germany's boss."

Romano lifted his head. "Really?"

" _S_ _í_. Some of my people helped them get passports or citizenship papers. And everyone who made it to my place was safe. I had one official who tried to have my Jews sent away, but I… convinced him to change his mind."

"Convinced," Romano echoed, arching a dubious eyebrow.

Spain's smile was a thin razor. " _S_ _í_. I think one Inquisition per country is quite enough. I refused to be part of another. So I convinced him to change his mind."

"Uh-huh."

"Anyway, _la niña_ recognized me and wanted to say thank you."

Romano glanced at his dresser, on which a small, clay, cup held a small bunch of Daphne flowers. "Well, at least she's got good taste in flowers."

" _S_ _í_ _, las flores son muy bonitas_ ," the other murmured, rolling onto his side. He reached out, took Romano's hand and pressed a soft kiss to the back of it. " _Pero mi Lovino es el más bonito en el mundo_." **[Spanish: "Yes, the flowers are very pretty." "But my Lovino is the prettiest in the world."]**

Southern Italy went bright red.

For a few tranquil moments, the two lay together, a sweet moment worthy of any romance.

Then Romano exploded. "Alright, _bastardo_! Enough is enough!" He shot upright and snatched his hand away, holding it to his chest.

There was a long moment as Romano wildly cast around for something to distract Spain from any more shitty (wonderful) kisses. Finally, "When are we going to talk about that fucking letter?"

Antonio blinked several times. "What do you mean, Lovi? I thought you didn't want to talk it."

"Well, we need to talk about it, don't we, _idiota_?!"

"What do we need to talk about, _cariño_?"

Shit.

"Um… Well, what do those Allied fuckers expect me to do with my idiot _fratello_? What's he fucking supposed to do when they start fucking trying to seize his fucking vital regions!"

He was babbling. He knew he was babbling.

"What do they fucking expect him to do when they go marching into Firenze, Verona, Genoa, Milan… He's going to fucking lose his mind when they come to Venezia!" **["Firenze" and "Venezia": the Italian names for "Florence" and "Venice", respectively]**

Romano was bullshitting. He knew he was bullshitting. But he was not going to think about that kiss – not while his hand was still warm and buzzing from the memory of Spain's lips…

"Won't Venecito just surrender like he usually does?" Spain asked, looking confused.

Fuck.

What was he supposed to say?

His mind scrambled wildly.

"Just shut up and help me think of something, tomato bastard!"

* * *

Spain left at the end of the week and Romano found himself mightily regretting his ill-chosen diversion. Now he had to set up a long-ass trip for his _fratello_ , and – almost certainly – one very touchy little girl.

Why had he panicked? It had been one little kiss.

 _Un besito_. **[Spanish: "A little kiss."]**

He felt the heat rise in his face and he could just hear Spain's annoyingly cheery voice. _"_ _Apareces como un tomate lindo, Romano_ _!"_ **[Spanish: "You look like a cute tomato, Romano!"]**

It was all that tomato bastard's fault! If he hadn't been all stupid and pervy, Romano never would have had to come up with a reason to get his brother out of town!

And that was the story he was going with. Spain's fault. The end. Period.

With that in mind, he stomped into the kitchen Sunday morning – or he would have if he was wearing something other than slippers.

As it was, his intensity was sufficiently disturbing enough to interrupt Veneziano and Lucia's breakfast. Well, Veneziano stopped eating and looked up; Lucia didn't even pause as she carefully picked apart her tiny serving of toast and dipped the pieces into a teaspoon dollop of jam.

"Alright, _bastardo_ , time for a reckoning!"

"You shouldn't curse in front of children," Lucia commented blandly even as she popped a piece of toast into her mouth.

Romano twitched, but still flung his arm out dramatically to point into the formal dining room.

"That's not going to keep me from listening in on you," Lucia said, taking a sip from her cup of weak coffee.

Choosing not to answer her, the elder Italian brother swept into the other room (though his exit was slightly ruined when he stubbed his toes on the door frame). After he had stopped hopping around and swearing ("Language," called Lucia from the kitchen.), Romano whirled around and folded his arms aggressively across his chest.

"Do you remember Monte Cassino?"

Italy blinked, then drooped. " _S_ _í_. Such a terrible thing… it was a beautiful church – didn't you say it was one of your favorites?"

Romano ignored the question. "Well. Those bastard Americans finally started to realize their liberating soldiers were just finishing the job that fucking Hitler started when they marched in and started blowing up everything he didn't destroy or steal. Our beautiful Santa Trinita… the Uffizi stripped… and the Campostella…"

* * *

A hard, painful lump rose up in Italy's throat like a stranglehold. It was true; the war had not been kind on their treasures, what their people had created over the centuries… Paintings by Da Vinci and Caravaggio, abbeys he and his brother had watched rise by the hands of pious friars and their wealthy sponsors, and monuments built by the long dead who had been his precious people… Michelangelo and Cosimo de'Medici…

It had been a horrific blow when he had found out about the thefts and destruction. Germany had not been able to look him in the eye when he had told him, rather, he had stared straight past him at the wall beyond or down at his boots.

The thought of it all, his lost treasures… _Germany_ … had a small sob escaping. "I know… I remember."

"Well, that damned hamburger bastard and that double damned tea bastard have been sending people to try and help save some of what is ours. Not that it's going to make a fucking difference to what's already been done."

But Italy leaned forward. "Do you mean that they tried to protect things? Like… like L'Ultima Cena? Our churches? The palaces?"

They were flashing through his mind now: the Grand Canal, Florence's cathedral, Saint Mark's Basilica, the Doge's palace, the Milan Cathedral… Would the Allies leave those alone?

Romano nodded grimly. "They didn't have much. My people told me the man in charge steals what he needed because no one would give him anything."

But Veneziano's mind was already whirring. "How bad is it, big brother?"

"Here, it's mostly buildings. Monte Cassino, _el Museo delle Navi Romane_ , the monastery of _Santa Maria delle Grazie_... well, you've seen those. And then there's what's been stolen. The hamburger bastard's bosses have decided that they want to start trying to find all the treasures those Nazi fuckers stole and I want our stuff back." **[Italian: "the Museum of the Roman Navy" "Holy Mary of Thankfulness"]**

He looked his brother in the eye.

"Do you?"

Italy nodded. " _S_ _ì_ , of course. But Romano, I don't know where they are. G-Germany never told me."

Romano sighed and scrubbed a hand through his hair. "Well, there's still the damage those fuckers and the American and British idiots caused to our cities. I don't have the time to look after this with all the trouble we're still having with Mussolini. So I want you to go out and look after what's left. The Allied idiots have taken Florence – you can start there."

His mind was whirring with details. Firenze. Where should he even start?

Had there been more damage since… since Germany had – had sent him away? The Santa Trinita bridge of course was gone and several other buildings were certainly damaged… but what else…?

He would have to go and see…

Clothes. Sketchpad.

Pasta.

A car. He needed a car.

What else would he need?

And then he remembered Lucia.

"I'm sorry, _fratello_ , but you know I can't leave Lucia here. I promised I would look after her."

His brother stared. " _Idiota_. Take her with you."

Italy stared back. "Lucia wouldn't want to go. She likes it here. She can sit in the sun here. Play with her kitties and pick flowers in the gardens."

Romano scoffed. "You sound even stupider than usual. That girl wants to go. She wants to see the world outside of those hellholes those Nazi-fuckers kept her in. And there will be sun in Florence. And Milan. Take her to see real art.

"And don't even try to feed me that crap about her being too weak. She nearly threw the kitchen table at me at dinner last night."

"But –"

"Look, little brother, go and ask the girl what she wants. It's not like she hasn't been listening in on us anyway."

And sure enough, when Italy opened the pantry door and looked out, Lucia was sitting cross-legged in front of the door with one of his sketchpads in her lap and a bit of charcoal in her hand.

She looked up from what she was drawing. Her eyes were wide – there was a spark of what was almost excitement. "I have never seen a fresco before."

A smile split his face so hard it was almost painful. "You will. It was once standard to every well-educated young person in Europe to come and see our house."

Lucia nodded. "When do we go?"

He crouched down in front of her. "As soon as we are packed."

She got to her feet and clutched the sketchpad to her chest. "I want to see your art. Is it really so beautiful?"

"My people's art is the best in the world. No matter what Big Brother France and Mr. Netherlands says." He glanced at the sketchpad. "You are an artist, too."

"It's just a drawing."

He laughed. "Everything starts as a drawing, _bambina_. Even the Sistine Chapel. Even the Mona Lisa."

The girl cocked her head at that, then offered him the pad.

"No, no, _gattina_ , you keep it. You'll need something to record everything you're going to see, after all."

And Lucia smiled at him. " _Grazie, Italia Veneziano_."

" _Prego, Bella Lucia_." **[Italian: "Your welcome, Beautiful Lucia"]**

* * *

They were packed and ready by the end of the day – though Lucia had had to come in and help Italy choose what he should and should not bring, and then help him fold his clothes so they would all fit into his two suitcases.

"You are very messy, Feliciano," Lucia said, staring at him as he wrestled with his socks and underwear. And then, she giggled.

It was a high, bubbly sound.

And Feliciano grinned and giggled. "I know, _mi amici_. I know." **[Italian: "my friend"]**

"We are going to be late if you don't hurry."

"Oh, _bambina_ … that's just a part of my culture."

"I like your culture."

" _Grazie, bella_. I like my culture, too!"

 **A/N1: Lucia and Feliciano are off on a road trip. Romano is quite the little manipulative little shit – it's absolutely amazing the crap he will spew to avoid being embarrassed. Next chapter Lucia will see more of the world and meet more characters.**

 **A/N2: Shout out to all those awesome authors who took the time to write books that would help me write my story.**

 _ **During the Spain's time under the government/tyranny/dictatorship under Generalisimo Francisco Franco, he was known as the Spanish State from 1939-1947, after which he again was known as the Kingdom of Spain. Don't ask me why – Franco was more or less the king anyway of Spain. And not the good kind of king, either.**_

 _ **Though Spain didn't make any formal protests about the actions of the Nazis against the Jews, several Spanish foreign administrators in Nazi-occupied territories went out of their way to provide documentation and escape routes for Jews in need.**_ _ **Á**_ _ **ngel Sanz Briz and Eduardo Propper de Callej**_ _ **ó**_ _ **n come to mind – both of whom are memorialized in the Yad Vashem, or the Garden of the Righteous, in Israel. And while Franco and several of his cronies did give Hitler and his cronies a list of Jews living in several Spanish cities, those who looked after the borders between Spain and France were known to allow, if not outright help when possible, refugees cross the border. So Lucia is actually very taken with him and likes him immediately.**_

 _ **So, even in April 1945 the Allies had yet to fully conquer Italy. But don't you guys go thinking it was because of the Italians, oh no, thank dear old Germany, whose soldiers and General Albert Kesselring did a damn good job making it hard as hell keeping the British and Americans out of Northern Italy. Even now, they wouldn't start really the final push into the area until the beginning of April – right around the time that Romano has seen to kicking Italy out of Rome.**_

 _ **And the whole Germany robbing Italy is not a joke. Once Italy stopped being Nazi Germany's ally and sided with the Allies, Hitler was more than happy to send spies and what amounted to common thieves in SS-uniforms to "move Italian treasures to Berlin, where they would be safe". Even works of art that were legally not meant to leave the country (literally, Italy actually has laws over what pieces of art can go outside of his borders), were sold by Mussolini – after minimal bribing – to the Germans at rock bottom pricing, with works by Renaissance masters priced at what amounted to $1000 when they were worth more like $25 million. Germany hated stealing from his friend, but he was just too damn good at obeying order, and several pieces have never been found, even to this day. In other places, the Nazis were just as grasping and thieving in other countries, stealing any paintings they wanted from anywhere they conquered. These included works by Michelangelo, Caravaggio, Rembrandt, Van Dyke, and many other masters. Whatever he didn't like (or perhaps was just not cultured enough to appreciate), Hitler had destroyed. Van Gogh's, Picasso's, and Matisse' were sold for literally what you'd pay for a poster online, or burned outright. No one knows for certain how many priceless works of art were carelessly and spitefully destroyed due to a little, evil, man's madness.**_

 _ **Then there's the amount of architectural and cultural treasures that were destroyed over the course of the war, either through purposefully done destruction due to the Nazis, such as Warsaw's medieval castle where the Polish monarchy once ruled, or through the simple waging of war, such as the monastery where Da Vinci's Last Supper fresco was painted being destroyed by Allied bombing raids.**_


	7. Chapter 6

**Hello, everyone! I am uploading this a little early since I'll be out of town this weekend.**

 **Be prepared, this is a _long_ chapter. I hope you enjoy... **

Chapter 6

The final battle for Northern Italy began just as Italy and Lucia arrived in Florence. Feliciano had collapsed the instant he tried climbing out of his car. His limbs had trembled and spasmed even as he lay on the cobbled driveway in front of the Villa Cora.

Lucia had stared at him in horror as he moaned in the street. She had seen – felt – hundreds of thousands of people fall to the ground in agony, only to die between one breath and the next. Each and every one had been dear to her, even if she never saw them, and she carried each life inside of her.

But most she had never seen. Had never spoken to.

Feliciano had sung her to sleep after nightmares that had her screaming the roof down. He had told her stories, given her kittens, taught her to make pasta and weave flower crowns.

And now he gasped and coughed up blood before her.

"Help!" she screamed, falling to her knees beside him and grabbing his shoulders. "He needs help!"

She heaved him into a sitting position as two men came hurrying out of the Villa. One was a young man, with the heavy, limping, walk of an individual with a wooden leg, and the other was an older man, his shoulders stooped with age. They took Feli from her and carried him inside.

Lucia took only the moment she needed to grab her kittens' basket before she ran into the building herself.

They had laid Italy down onto a sofa in a huge sitting room with golden scrollwork outlining windows and mirrors and curling up onto the plaster ceiling, where there were painted vases overflowing with blooming wildflowers. Golden chandeliers hung from the ceiling and cast tiny rainbows shimmering through the air. As Lucia approached with her basket of kittens, the younger of the two men dragged over a chaise of gleaming blue and gold velvet.

"You don't look well at all, Signor," the older man moaned. "We will call you a doctor. And take care of your room. And get your luggage from out of the car…"

He continued in this vein for a few minutes, and Lucia finally interrupted him as Feli whimpered in pain. "We would like for you to bring us a blanket. Then you will prepare a room for Signor Vargas and bring our luggage there. You will do this immediately, please."

If the hotel employees were confused at being given orders by a tiny, half-starved looking creature, they did not show it. They actually seemed quite relieved to have been told what to do and scurried off to carry out her orders.

"Feli?" she murmured, sidling closer. "Are you alright?"

He smiled at her weakly. "The last of my place is being attacked by Mr. Britain and Mr. America's forces. They're really pushing Germany's men out."

Lucia smiled, a fierce rush of sharp joy at the thought of German soldiers being blown apart, shot through the head, maybe burned alive…

But then Feli inhaled sharply and shifted in what looked like extreme discomfort.

"Don't worry, Bella, this isn't the first time I've been attacked. When I was little, back when I was still just a city-state, one of my best friends' boss, Charlemagne, tried to take me over. _That_ was definitely one of the worst. Then Mr. Turkey attacked me in the 15th century… of course, he was still the Ottoman Empire then." He paused, thinking, then flashed her a bright, cheery smile. " _Non preoccuparti_ , I may be a coward and weakling, but I am an expert in surrendering and surviving!" **["Don't worry!"]**

She wasn't smiling now. Her eyes were tracking a trickle of blood making its way slowly down from his hairline, past his right eye, and towards his chin.

"You're bleeding, Feli. You're bleeding!"

He wiped at his face and blinked at the blood on his fingers. "Big Brother would be angry about this."

Lucia felt like screaming. " _I_ am angry about this! Why don't you fight back?! Why are you just sitting here?!"

And Italy looked at her – looked her in the eye – and she saw the ages within him. The centuries that had made him. The wars and the trade. The art and beauty. The disasters and the plagues.

And all of his people.

"Why…? You used to be a warrior."

Italy laughed softly. "I was never a warrior. I was an artist who could fence and shoot a bow better than most. I defended myself and my people defended themselves until defending ourselves would have destroyed us. Once the time of fencing and archery was over… well, now I have learned to surrender and bow. And I have survived."

Lucia grasped his hand. "But I want to do more than survive. I want to fight back. I want to make the people who hurt me pay."

"That I can't help you with, Bella Lucia."

But Lucia had already made up her mind. "You know how to fence. And you used to use knives. I saw them at Romano's house."

Now Feli was looking distinctly nervous. "That was a long time ago."

"Have you forgotten?"

She could see him thinking about lying, considering whether he should do it.

"No," he admitted softly, lowering his head and tensing slightly as his arm jerked with phantom pains.

She leaned forward. He knew how to fight. With knives.

The Nazis had had black and silver knives to go along with their black and silver uniforms. She could see them in her mind: black hilts with silver eagles and long, straight blades with sharp engraving: "Alles für Deutschland". **["Everything for Germany"]**

Her hands flexed. "Will you teach me?"

Italy looked at her for a long moment. "People don't use knives much anymore."

Lucia felt phantom pains erupt across her skin. Sharp stabs into her sides, aimed at her kidneys and lungs. Terrible ripping and tearing as a paper thin blade slipped between the layers of her skin and began peeling until all that was left was raw, red, flesh.

She didn't hesitate. " _They_ haven't forgotten how. So I want to learn."

Feli smiled a smile as sad as any she had ever seen, even in the camps. " _Va bene_ , Bella Lucia." **["Okay"]**

* * *

Italy had come to Florence to find and keep the treasures and monuments still left with them safe and protected as the Allies clashed with Germany's army. He had wanted to go out into the city or countryside and see for himself what was happening and what could be done.

He'd actually had plans.

But the British had spent the first few days of the month attacking and shoving at the German soldiers until they forced them back North of the River Po, and then completely out of Italy. It had given him wracking pains in his legs, up his spine, and into his brain, where it became a blinding migraine that had only worsened as the Allied troops descended on his Apennine Mountains to find and drive the Germans out.

So Italy had been laid up in his room, barely able to stumble from the bed to the bathroom, and maybe to a chair by the window when the migraine was less severe. Thankfully, word had gone out among those Italians looking to help preserve their cultural heritage that there was someone higher up in the governmental hierarchy who was willing to help them.

Now there were maps on the walls of his suite, different regions and cities clearly marked out by their art treasures and architectural wonders. Volunteers came in and received assignments to monitor the protections set around the artwork and buildings. Three men were stationed around the bare wall that held Da Vinci's Last Supper, their sole responsibility to make sure the sandbags and coverings surrounding the fresco continued to protect the precious image. Four men patrolled the Galleria dell'Accademia and the huge brick mound that had covered and shielded Michelangelo's David from any aerial bombings. And on and on.

Meanwhile, Lucia had been ill as well. The night they had arrived, she had begun wandering around the hotel, seemingly unable to stop, despite the hacking and coughing deep in her chest. She didn't even seem to notice the blisters as she walked laps around the property.

" _Bambina_ ," he had asked, watching as she paced around his bedroom. "What is the matter? Can't you sit down?"

"We're walking, Feli," she had gasped. "Walking and walking and walking. We're leaving death to go towards death."

"We? Lucia, are you talking about your people? The people in the camps?"

"Walking," she babbled. "Walking to nowhere. But we can't stop…"

"Lucia, _bambina_ , your feet are bleeding. You need to stop."

This time she didn't stop, just continued to pace, beginning to leave bloody footprints on the fine wood floors and luxurious carpets.

"Lucia!" he reached out from his place on the bed, snagging her wrist as she walked past.

She turned on him with a snarl, but Italy did not shy away.

" _Gattina_ , you are frightening your pets. You are destroying your feet." He swallowed. "And you're scaring me."

Lucia's glare fell into tears. "Feli, we have to walk. We're walking to nowhere but they make us walk anyway. On and on to nowhere… until we're dead."

" _Bambina_ …" he sighed, pulling her gently towards him. "You're not walking to your death. No more than the rest of us, anyway."

She allowed herself to be tugged to the side of the bed. "But we are walking, Feli. I can feel it – I can feel us walking and walking, and when we fall they shoot us. They shoot us or they leave us to die. I can feel it!"

"You can feel your people," Italy said softly, raising his other hand to rest on her cheek. "You can feel them because you are them and they are you. It is the same with the rest of us – you should have seen Germany when Mr. Britain –"

He cut himself off, but not before Lucia went stone still before him. "Oh no, I am sorry, _Gattina_ , I know you don't like to speak of him."

"It's coming to an end, Feli. What made me is coming to an end. I don't know if it's because the war is about to end, or if there are just no more of my people left to kill, but it's coming to an end. We're still dying, but we're dying on our feet, not in the fake showers."

Italy sat up. "Well, that's a good thing right?"

She looked at him with a long, sorrowful look. "There's been so much death, Feli, so much that it could never be a good thing – no matter how or when it ends."

Fresh tears began to come. "And nothing will ever bring them back. They're gone forever… and there aren't even gravestones. Nothing… they're ashes now. Or rotting meat. Just gone away. Gone… Sophie, and Leon, and Anne, and Ernst, and Wilhelm and –"

Her voice was getting higher and wilder. More hysterical. Her eyes were becoming fixed and staring, pupils turning to pinpricks. Her body began rocking.

"Lisbette, and Blanche, and –"

He pulled her close to him and pressed her face into his chest – he had taken to wearing an overlarge shirt and boxers ever since Lucia had started sleeping with him – and held her tightly. " _Mi dispiace, Bella Lucia. Mi dispiace molto…_ " **["I am sorry, Beautiful Lucia.** **I am so sorry..."]**

"They're gone," she sobbed. "They're all gone, Feli, and I couldn't do anything to help."

Italy debated pointing out that even if she had resisted, she as one child – even a Personification – would not have had much of a chance to save the people she grieved so deeply for.

She took the decision out of his hands: "That won't happen again – I won't let it. You're going to teach me how to use a knife. I'll learn to use a gun after that. I'll learn how to fight with my hands. I'll learn how to defend myself and everyone else. I'll learn. You'll see. I won't ever be helpless again."

And those black eyes burned. "Never again."

* * *

Florence was surprisingly untouched by the war compared to what Alex had seen in other parts of Italy. The carnage of Monte Cassino burned in his mind at the site of gleaming, undamaged marble buildings.

"You'd think there'd never been a war," he muttered sourly as the car left the city main city limits to go into the country.

"What was that, sir?" asked the young sergeant driving the car.

"Nothing. It was nothing."

Alexander K. Jones was tired, sore and irritated. He had been in full swing with Patton's Third Army, hacking his way cheerfully through Germany's place when they had gotten the call.

Some soldier had helped out a couple of townswomen and heard about buried treasure in a mine. Of course, the army being the hotbed of gossip that it was, word had reached Patton who had been all too eager to go and see this supposed treasure. Unfortunately, the general's schedule of conquering Germany had proven too busy to go see it himself. So he had sent Alex to go and scout what was in the mine. So the young man had gone into what was supposed to be a mine shaft, only to find a veritable trove of… treasure.

Honest to God, treasure.

Gold objects of all kinds: bullion, jewelry, knickknacks – a disturbing number of menorahs – what seemed to be eye glasses, cigarette cases, and small gold lumps someone had whispered might be gold tooth fillings; bound stacks of money in dozens of world currencies, including American dollars, British pounds, French francs, German marks, Italian lire, and on and on… There had to have been at least a hundred million dollars down there.

And then, around a corner, they had come across a cavern filled with wooden shelves. And on these wooden shelves, there had been artwork. Artwork that had no place in a mine in Germany while a war raged above ground.

Manet's painting _In the Wintergarden._

Nefertiti's famous bust.

Engravings by Albrecht Durer.

There had been hundreds of statues and paintings – everything from Realism to Renaissance. Seeing it all – the history and culture of Europe – hidden in a deep hole in a warzone, had made Alex sick.

He had reported to Patton what he had found and the man had immediately begun making his own plans to go and see it. Alex had called his fathers to the sound of Ole Blood and Guts enthusing about how he would bring General Eisenhower and Bradley down to see his amazing find. And his fathers had given him the order to go and speak to the only other Axis member they had access to.

"Italy might be a duffer, but he is probably the most knowledgeable art expert in the world," Britain had said grimly.

"Not to mention, he's closer to that Nazi-bastard than anyone else," Alex had commented. "Otherwise, I think we'd be talking to France, old man."

His father had grumbled. "Get back to work, you little berk."'

"Well, dude, theft looks like the least of what Germany's been doing," had been America's opinion. "But taking that much money away from him and his boss can only make things easier for us. Try asking Italy if he knows where other stuff might be hidden."

So Alex had hitched a ride to Italy in a Flying Fortress to meet up with the American forces. General Lucian Truscott had loaned him a driver and a car, and now he was pulling up in front of a great Italian mansion surrounded with lush trees and gardens to speak to Italy about what else Germany might be hiding.

As they stopped and climbed out of the car, several people came hurrying out of the building. The women gave him clumsy curtseys, while the men tugged lightly on their caps. A young man stepped forward and began speaking in labored English with a thick Italian accent.

"Good afternoon, Mr. American. We are happy to be seeing you. We give you much happy when you with us. What thing we do for you?"

It took a moment for him to decipher the painful English, but then he answered, "I'm here to speak to Mr. Vargas about his work in saving Italy's art and history."

As soon as the young man – acting as the default translator – relayed this message to his companions, there was immediate shifting and muttering amongst the staff.

Alex smiled coolly. "Of course, I understand he might be unprepared for me, so I will be quite willing to wait in your opening hall while my aide here brings the luggage in the back door."

Within five minutes, an elderly woman was leading him up the stairs and down a hallway towards the back of the building.

"Here," she said carefully. She paused, thinking, then again, "Here."

And then hurried away.

Witness, the bravery of the Italians.

He knocked on the door.

There was the faint sound of talking and then " _Chi è_?" **["Who is it?"]**

Alex nodded in satisfaction. _Found you._ "My name is Alexander K. Jones. I'm looking for Signore Vargas."

"Coming!"

Italia Veneziano had lost weight since the last Alex had seen him. A nightshirt and boxers hung off him and he looked slightly ill.

 _Well_ , Alex thought, _no wonder. Dad and Pops' people have been hammering away at his land, pushing out the Nazis._

"Good afternoon, Italy," he began. "It's nice to see you again. Why don't we sit down?"

The Mediterranean country bobbed his head nervously. " _Bene_ , won't you come in?" **["Okay"]**

Stepping inside, Alex realized the room was actually a suite. The entry foyer was set up in the style of a living room and dining room combination, with old-fashioned furniture of hand-carved wood and velvet cushions.

As he entered, the man noticed the papers and photographs spread across the surface of every piece of furniture and tacked up on the walls. He stopped dead in his tracks as he noticed maps with colored markers set across what looked like regions of Italy stretching up into Austria.

"What's all this?"

Italy appeared startled at his harsh tone. "This?"

"The maps." This was just what they needed, Italy deciding to try and backstab the Allies by feeding information to the Germans. Not that it would do much good at this point, but still… this was a complication they just did not need.

The older man glanced from him to the maps. "Oh! I am using them to keep track of the damage to our historical and cultural treasures."

He pointed to a map pinned to the wall with several pictures of buildings and statues. "See? This is the _Tempio Malatestiano_ – it's in Rimini. Do you see how it's been damaged? I am looking for people to help keep the rain out until we have the time to fix it. One of my people told me that your papa, America, has a group of men helping with this stuff."

Alex leaned forward and squinted at the photograph. It looked real enough. Each map was paired with one or more photographs of artwork and buildings and lists of names and places.

"Looks like you've got your hands full with all this stuff. And you're right – the American Army has a group of people called the Monument Men.

"Anyway, this is actually kind of what I wanted to –"

" _Chi è quello_?" **["Who is that?"]**

He jumped and whirled around.

Standing in the doorway to what must have been the bedroom area was the skinniest, most pathetic creature Alex had ever seen. It appeared to be a child in a white nightgown, with twig-like arms sticking out from the short sleeves of the nightie and bone-thin legs underneath. Fierce black eyes were watching him from a face that was so wasted as to look like a skull covered with only the barest covering of skin. There was hair: a mess of short brown maybe two inches long that made the image just seem worse.

It looked like something you would see in a nightmare. "What the hell –"

The little nightmare stepped towards him.

Whatever – whoever – this was, it was almost three full feet smaller than himself, and its whole body looked like it might be smaller than his thigh. And Alex found himself more than a little unnerved by it.

" _Bist du Deutscher_?" it asked. " _Bist du gekommen, um mich wegzuholen_?" **["Are you German? Did you come to take me away?"]**

There was a knife in its hand.

Shit.

Alex put his hand to his holster.

"Lucia!" Italy said loudly. "No! He's not a German! This is Alexander! He is the son of Mr. America and Mr. Britain! He's an Allied soldier!"

"What the bloody hell is going on here?!" Alex demanded hotly, gripping the butt of his gun.

"No! No!" Italy cried, leaping between them. "She thinks you're a German soldier!"

"What?!" he screeched, craning his neck to scowl at the child behind his host. "I am not a goddamned Nazi!"

"Then who are you?" the girl asked in English, her voice as dead as a week-old corpse.

Alex shoved past Italy and confronted the tiny child. He turned his shoulder to her, gesturing angrily at the patch on his uniform. "See this? This flag right here? This is Old Glory, the American flag. This means I am an American soldier. A captain! I kill Nazis!"

There was no change in the child's demeanor and he felt strangely empty at the thought that she might not believe him. He thought about his blond hair and blue eyes and felt suddenly uncomfortable.

"Hey," he said in a softer tone. "Look, my name is Alexander Kirkland Jones, but I only use that name when I'm with the Americans. When I'm with the British I'm Alexander Jones Kirkland. I'm the son of America and Britain, you see. Have you met my dads?"

The child looked taken aback and blinked several times. Something in those black eyes softened and suddenly she looked like a little girl in an oversized nightgown.

"Lucia," she said softly, looking up at him.

"I beg your pardon?"

"My name. Yours is Alexander. Mine is Lucia."

Alex smiled at her. "It's nice to make your acquaintance, Lucia."

He extended his hand to her, trying to keep his body language as friendly as possible.

Now she was outright staring at him. He stared back, waiting.

For a moment he thought she wasn't going to go through with it. Then, a look of understanding crossed her face and her hand raised up and settled into his and he carefully shook it. "Your English dad is nice. I liked him."

And she looked into his eyes and the Personification saw the Other that marked her as a fellow Personification.

* * *

Alex stayed for supper to talk with Italy about the mysterious mine. The former Axis country had admitted that he had known about some of the thefts – had even been a victim of these thefts – and knew where some of the stolen fortune might be.

He ended up staying the night in a neighboring suite, readying several maps for Italy to mark out where they could find more of these art caches.

The next morning found him driving down into Florence to check in with the Allied advance through the Italian mountains, but after a long conversation with General Mark Clark, and few quick phone calls with his fathers, he hurried back to the Villa Cora to finish his conversation with Italy.

It was as he was climbing out of the vehicle and waving off his driver that he noticed a small lump resembling an underfed little girl sitting up in one of the ornamental trees lining the driveway.

"Hey, there!" he called, trotting over. "Is that you, Lucy?"

It was.

She was about fifteen feet above the ground, hugging the trunk with both hands and pressing her face into the bark. From the shaking in her shoulders, the child was probably crying.

"Lucy?" he tilted his head way back. "Lucy-Goosey? Are you okay? Luvey, are you stuck?"

No answer.

"Lucia! Listen, honey, I'm coming up, okay? Don't move, okay? Here I come!"

It had been a long time since Alex had gone climbing trees. He was severely out of practice; the days shimmying up trees in Vermont and Virginia, and in Hampshire and Norfolk, were long gone. But he got up the tree regardless, drawing level with the treed girl.

She was definitely crying, but they were deep, silent sobs that wracked her shoulders even as she clutched at the tree and hid her face.

He really didn't want to touch her when she was like this, but she needed to come down out of this tree. She could run away and cry in another hiding place, but he wanted her on solid ground.

"Lucy, hun, you need to come down. I can see you're upset, and I'm really sorry, but you cannot stay in this tree all day." Very slowly, the young man settled a hand onto the tiny bird-like shoulders. "Come on, let me bring you down."

In the end, she extended an arm towards him and allowed him to take her into his arms and carry her down onto the ground.

"There we are, safe and sound on solid earth."

Lucia wasn't looking at him, but straight through as though she was seeing something a thousand miles away.

"Lucy? Are you okay?"

"People are dead," she wept. "There have always been dead people, but these are different. These are… they were nice… good… righteous…"

"Righteous?"

"I don't know… they were… they just were…"

More tears flowed.

Alex sat down cross-legged, with his back against the tree. "Do you know who they were, darling? These people who died?"

She shook her head. "I can only feel them dying. Maybe their names… Wilhelm, Dietrich… Hans… They were all… _German_ – not Jewish at all..."

"I thought the Germans were only killing Jews."

Lucia shook her head again. "No. They killed Poles, and Gypsies, and the triangles…"

"Triangles?"

"Men who like men… The Germans killed them, too. And… and everyone who fought back…"

She trailed off.

"Everyone who helped Jews and Poles and Gypsies and triangles… the Germans killed them… even if they were German too…"

Alex watched as fresh tears bubbled up. "The Germans… they even killed their own… their own… Those Germans… they were nice… good…"

She buried her face in her hands and wept bitterly.

"Oh, Lucy…" he murmured. "Come here, luvey."

When the sobbing child did not move, he reached out and drew her closer. "I'm sorry, Lucy-luv. I'm so sorry."

She was stiff in his arms, not relaxing even as he gently rubbed a hand up and down her spine.

"You and yours must hang on only a bit longer – the Allies have almost completely defeated the German Army. Then things will settle down for everyone, you'll see."

Lucia sighed so deeply it was as if she was trying to breathe in every atom of oxygen there was. "No it won't. Too many people are dead."

"Things will get better, Lucia. They always do – we can't be in this darkness forever, can we?"

"I don't know. My people are dying and some of them are Germans and not Jewish at all…" her breath suddenly quickened. "These men… some of them were in Nazi uniforms!"

She suddenly grabbed onto him with both hands. "I don't understand. Everything hurts and _I don't understand_!"

They sat under the trees next to the driveway for a long time as she wept into his fresh uniform and he sang to her.

 _We'll meet again  
Don't know where  
Don't know when  
But I know we'll meet again some sunny day  
Keep smiling through  
Just like you always do  
'Till the blue skies drive the dark clouds far away_

It was only as the sun reached its zenith and Italy came hurrying outside to look for them did they go inside, Alex carrying her without comment.

The next two days were spent with Alex carefully interviewing Italy about every possible place caches of money or cultural treasures might be, marking each suggested location on a map. In the evenings, however, he spent an hour walking with Lucia around the villa's grounds.

She was still unsettled, often muttering about walking to her grave and death traveling behind her on the roads. Alex wondered about that; Italy had told him that Lucia was the Manifestation of a tragedy that Germany's boss had brought down on the people of Europe, but not much more.

But the girl's frantic babbling about corpses, and graves, and death, was making him nervous.

Because Alex had heard reports of great fenced-in areas with sick and dying prisoners – most of whom had no real reason for being there. There were the rumors of horrors uncovered by the Russians… rumors that were beyond belief.

Or perhaps… maybe not so beyond belief, he was beginning to consider as he sat in the rose garden and watched Lucia practice with a small, stiletto blade that Italy had given her.

"Lucy-luv," he began, as she carefully tossed the knife back and forth between her hands, rearranging her grip each time. "I'm sorry, but I need to ask you a question that I'm afraid might be a bit… difficult."

The girl transitioned the weapon into her left hand and corrected her hold. " _Bene_ , what is your question?"

He took a very deep breath. "I heard from a member of the SIS – who heard it from some Russian intelligence – spies you know… that there are places in Europe where the Nazis took people to kill them. Horrible stories about gas chambers and crematoriums and rooms just filled with… dead peoples' things. Do you know anything about that?"

She let her hands – one with the knife, and the other empty – fall to her sides. "Yes. That's me."

Alex felt the air go very still around him. "I beg your pardon?"

"The Nazis hurt and killed people. Lots and lots of people. They did things that were… very bad. Worse than bad. It was so many people that I was born."

"How many? Do you know how many people were… hurt?"

Lucia pondered for a moment, then looked up at the sky. It was well and truly dusk now, burnt orange at the horizon with the dark red sun barely a curve over the edge and the rest of the sky fading to navy blue and speckled with stars and the tiniest sliver of the moon.

" _Unzählig wie die Sterne am Himmel_ ," she murmured. **["Countless as the stars in the sky."]**

"Stars? Sky?" Alex guessed. "Sorry, luv, my German's a bit rusty."

"Countless as the stars in the sky," she said quietly, voice suddenly that of an ancient woman rather than a nervous child. "That's how they were… countless. Now…" She waved a hand across the sky, gesturing at more than half of it. "Now… those stars have gone out."

The young man looked up at the twinkling lights, bright even past the soft lamps spread throughout the garden; how they sparkled against the darkness, and pictured more than half of them winking out.

And felt sick.

"Sweet Jesus."

"They would have killed Him too," Lucia commented, still in that old voice. "If they could have gotten away with it – if they had to."

* * *

It was April 12th and Alex was in a remarkably good mood. He had finished all of his letters, sent away the telegrams that needed to be sent, and had finally completed the maps and documentation of every possible place Germany could have hidden more treasure. In all actuality, he should have gotten himself on the road immediately after he had the maps ready, but it had been so long since he had been able to rest.

Ever since 1939, he had been running around Europe, Africa, and Asia with one of his fathers, trying to deal with the growing Axis threat. Island hopping with his Dad (God, and that Okinawa thing was only heating up) and hacking his way through Africa and Italy with his Pops…

Well, he'd be going back to the war in another few days. After all, they were advancing on all fronts, the enemy was barely gasping in Europe and mortally crippled in the East. What could go wrong?

So he had decided to give Lucia a bit of a treat. A quick phone call to the right people and a neat box had been delivered at lunchtime, along with a few GIs who had been enjoying some R&R and some cheerful, young, Italian girls.

Lucia had been in a silent and staring mood, but she had consented to being brought out into the open patio where he had set up a radio and small set of loudspeakers.

"Alright, Lucy," Alex said, standing before her. "I want to show you something – something really, truly, American."

She stared at him from her place on a stone bench. "You brought Italian girls."

"Led by American soldiers! Just watch and listen."

And he turned on the radio.

The sound of a deep percussion beat and swinging brass spilled into the air and rolled around the area.

Lucia's face snapped up, the whites of her eyes visible all around her dark irises. The look on her face was one of… he didn't have a word for that face.

Awed? Delighted?

"I know this music!"

"Do you?"

She was sitting at the edge of her seat, her hands gripping it. "They used to play this in Berlin. And Munich. And Hamburg. It used to be everywhere. But the evil little man – Hitler – he made them stop. He said it was… degenerate. It wasn't German."

"Well," Alex said briskly. "He wasn't totally wrong. This is American music, our own Benny Goodman – but the Germans were welcome to it if they wanted."

"They let it go. They threw it away. They threw lots of things away. Lots of people, too."

He waved a hand at her. "Well, now it's your turn to decide what you want to do with it. So just sit and watch."

A pretty, slender young woman with green-hazel eyes allowed him to sweep her into a rollicking swing dance, tossing her around the floor. The music grew louder and faster and the dancers more frenetic and exuberant in their movement.

And Lucia was swaying and clapping her hands. Italy was beside her now, beaming.

Alex laughed outright at the look on the girl's face as he spun his partner fiercely around the stone floor and dipped her almost to the ground. Around them, the other soldiers whooped and held their girls close, leading them through the madcap steps of their dance.

Italy was laughing outright.

And now, so was Lucia.

She was clapping and laughing, a smile bright and lovely across her thin little face.

They danced until almost sundown, ending with a final wild dance that had them half leaping across the impromptu dance floor, arms swinging, and the men literally lifting their partners off the ground and tossing them through the air. The hotel staff met them all coming in with a tableful of pasta and wine.

The night was looking to be full of talk and laughter – Lucia was still smiling, with what might even have been dimples in her wasted cheeks.

And then one of the villa caretakers came in to say he had an urgent telephone call waiting for him.

Within twenty minutes he was running back into the dining room, barking at the GIs to pack up and get ready to leave. He bid Italy and Lucia a hasty farewell, and leapt into the car.

As they drove away, Alex's head was in turmoil. The news was rattling around in his head like an errant bit of shrapnel.

He couldn't believe it.

Dead.

FDR was dead.

* * *

Lucia kept the memory of the soldiers and the girls dancing deep in her heart. Where she kept Rifka and Shmuel, and Polish apple farmers, and Hanukkah candles against frosty windows.

Alex and his friends had left them the radio, and the staff at the villa had brought it into the main sitting room. It was her new favorite place to sit, even as she got sick again. Her temperature soared and she felt the familiar agony of burning alive wracking through her body, but she still insisted on being settled in an armchair near the radio so she could listen to American music.

She concentrated on the American singer Bing Crosby's deep lovely voice as she felt the deep pain of more of her people die. She listened to a man named Frank Sinatra a few days later when she felt oddly lighter with a substantially lesser headache.

These moments of relief were coming more and more regularly as the war wound down. Italy had told her that it was probably because the camps were being liberated and her people being saved.

Britain came to see her several days after Alex left. He stayed for one day, hovering around her and bringing her cups of tea for several hours before he finally broke down and began apologizing frantically.

He spoke wildly about a place called Bergen-Belsen, asking her about the pits full of bodies and epidemics of typhus – a disease that was killing hundreds even though the British army was pumping as much medical supplies and personnel that could be spared into the camp.

She had finally put her hands on his as he rattled the teapot trying to pour tea into her already full teacup.

"Mr. Britain, are you feeling like you did something wrong?"

He trembled slightly. "I… My sources told me this was happening – that people were suffering, Jews being persecuted. The RAF got pleas from Poland to bomb those places… but we didn't. We set limits on refugees…"

The island nation hung his head, "Lucia, my dear, I will never be able to apologize for what I ignored –"

Lucia pressed down hard on his hands until they lowered onto the table. "How are my people? The ones you found in Bergen-Belsen?"

"Well, we're doing all that we can – but that typhus is truly running rampant and my doctors are running themselves to the bone, then there's the question of what to do with the bodies…"

"The Nazis burned the bodies," she offered.

"We'll bury them," he said firmly.

"Thank you," Lucia laid her cheek against his hand and looked up at him. "I can feel what you're doing for my people – for us. You're making my headache and my tummyache go away."

"You're welcome," Britain whispered. "You are so very welcome."

He insisted on making them dinner. It was a far cry from the delicious food she had grown used to (Feli and the nice people who kept the villa clean traded horrified looks as he proudly brought out the meal), but Lucia remembered moldy black potatoes and green and blue fuzz on bread – burned and lumpy stew was not such a difficulty.

"It's rag pudding!" Britain boasted as he tried to sop up the juices with a charred bit of bread.

"I've never had anything like it," she said truthfully.

And the man had beamed so brightly, she found that she just did not want to admit that it was awful compared to her usual fare.

It wasn't so bad – at least it wasn't rotten or moldy.

He left early the next morning, but he visited her before he drove away and pressed a book into her hands. "One of my authors wrote this a few years ago – it's quite a tale and I think you'll really like it."

Lucia glanced at the cover and had to wait a moment until the English title clicked in her head. The Hobbit.

"Thank you very much, Mr. Britain. I will treasure this."

* * *

It was a good book. The English words were kind of weird and wiggly in her head, and she occasionally had to remind herself that she could actually read this language, as she carefully read through the adventures of Bilbo Baggins and the Dwarfs.

She took to carefully reading it aloud to Feli, when he had to take to his bed again. Romano visited them, pacing around the room and ranting about their old boss Mussolini.

" _Bastardo_ thought he would just waltz into Milan and start setting up a new government! Did the _idiota_ fall and hit his head?"

Feli smiled weakly. "Don't worry, Big Brother, he won't be able to do much – Mr. America and Mr. Britain's armies are driving out Germany's soldiers out and he won't have any support to set up anything."

Romano shot him an irritated glance. "Since when have you gotten so smart?"

"Don't be mean, Romano, I've had a lot of time to think about it and Lucia and I have been talking a lot about what's happening."

The older brother huffed and scowled.

"Why do you keep cursing in front of children?" Lucia asked. She watched with quiet enjoyment as Romano's face went red and his expression kept switching between discomfort, guilt, and anger. "It's not nice."

She liked his pouting face.

* * *

Italy woke to his brother shouting into a telephone.

" _Chi lo ha ordinato? No, non mi importa, ma dovrebbe essere stato ordinato dal nuovo governo, non solo fatto da un partigiano casuale! Dove sono i corpi ora? Che cosa?! No ... lasciarli lì._ _Ci saremo domani!"_ **[Italian: Who ordered it? No, I don't care, but it should have been ordered by the new government, not just made by a random partisan! Where are the bodies now? What?! No… leave them there. We'll be there tomorrow!]**

Feli sighed and pulled himself into a sitting position. Lucia was curled up beside him, her dark eyes already open and tracking his brother's frantic movements back and forth in tiny pacing movements according to the length of the telephone cord. He groaned as he managed to lean himself against the bed's headboard, his body a solid mass of pain.

"Is it the Po Valley, still?" Lucia asked.

"No, _Gattina_ ," he murmured. "It's the fighting around Fornovo di Taro, and I still ache from Bologna. And Sr. Alex's forces will be reaching Genoa by now, though the partisans will have already taken that."

He winced. "And now it feels like something big is also happening."

"I'll say something big is happening," Romano grumbled, stomping over to the bed. "Il Duce is dead. Him and his mistress."

"Benito and Clara are dead?!" Italy gasped, sitting upright for only a moment before the agony overwhelmed him and he sagged back down, moaning.

"Si," his brother answered grimly. "And now the bodies are hanging upside down in Milan in the Piazzale Loreto."

Veneziano tried to process this, but the thought of the swaggering, shouting figure of Mussolini did not lend itself to the idea of death.

"Will you be alright?" Lucia piped up, her grip tightening on his nightshirt. "When your boss is dead?"

He smiled tiredly at her. "Do you know what Sr. Mussolini said in his last interview, _bambina_? He said, 'Italy will rise again… for me, however, it is over.' We are Italy, we are not destroyed by the death of one man, so long as our people and our identity remains as Italian, we will continue."

Lucia smiled and snuggled into his side. "I'm glad."

His older brother did not seem as relieved. "That still begs the question of what we should do now. I say we go and see this for ourselves – kick the corpse to make sure it's dead and all that."

And so they went off the next morning, April 29th seeing them in a car for the four hour drive from Florence to Milan.

By the time they got there, the bodies had been taken down and delivered to the city morgue and two tall, blond men were waiting for them at the entrance. Both in American uniforms, and one was very familiar.

Alex did not seem to have gotten much sleep in the two weeks since they had last seen him. His American father seemed to have lost some weight, with purple circles under his eyes and several bandages peeking up from under his dress shirt. His glasses were slightly crooked.

"Howdy, Italy, Romano, small girl-child," America greeted shortly. "Seems we finally got one of those fascist sons of bitches."

"Language," Lucia chirped from Italy's side in their car.

"Apologies, little lady," he amended automatically. "But Mussolini is dead. I suppose you all came to make sure of that?"

" _Si_ ," Romano said fiercely, his voice harder and louder than usual, possibly to hide the tremors shaking his body. "We've had enough of him coming back and disappearing – have to know for sure whether he's dead and then we can get back to business without worrying about idiotic coups."

America laughed rather harshly. "No coups here, Pasta-boy. You guys just keep putting together your nice democratic government and we won't have any problems."

His fierce blue eyes settled on Lucia and his gaze fell into a frown. He glanced hastily at his son, who gave a short nod. "Are you Lucia?"

" _Si_ …"

"You're made of the stuff Britain told me about – the stuff at Bergen-Beller?"

"Bergen-Belsen," she corrected. "Yes, that's me."

"And the stuff at Flossenbürg?"

"Yes."

There was a moment of silence – the kind that came right before thunderstorms and gale force winds. America had gone very white and his fists clenched.

"Well, the hero will have to deal with that stuff later. Sorry, dollface, I'm in the middle of duking it out with Japan in Okinawa, but I'll make sure my people do what they can for you and yours."

"Thank you, Mr. America."

He gave her a very tired version of his devil-may-care grin. "Well, let's hurry and show you guys the dead Duke."

"It's pronounced 'Il Duce', hamburger bastard," Romano snapped.

"Yeah, but it's still pronounced 'dead'."

It was as they were leaving that there was more news from the fight against the Germans. The generals in charge of the German Army had come forward to negotiate a surrender at Caserta.

And another horrible labor camp had just been discovered by the Americans, this one in Bavaria.

A place called Dachau.

* * *

The city of Berlin had once been the pride of the German people. Stately marble buildings lined the streets, the Victory Column sitting before the Brandenburg gate… The wonderful zoo and the exquisite gardens…

Everything was now in ruins. So much reduced to rubble.

But still the German Army fought on, aided by generals, officers, and two particular men.

Germany, also known as Ludwig, with his brother's name of Beilschmidt tacked on for administrative purposes, clutched his rifle and crouched behind an especially large mound of wreckage.

With him was a much older man, looking to be in his very late sixties. Hans Bauer, the Representative of Berlin, seemed to be aging before Germany's very eyes, an extra wrinkle appearing each time a Russian missile hit another of the buildings. Before everything had begun to crumble around them, Hans had been a tall, thirty-something looking individual with perfectly groomed short blond hair, steel grey eyes, and a posture and physique so perfect he might have been the model for a Roman statue. Now he wouldn't have been out of place in the older divisions of the _Volkssturm_. **["People's storm": the name for the milita-like People's Army of Germany]**

It had come down to this. From menacing Russia on the very edges of his biggest cities, they had been driven back on all fronts until they scrambled for bullets and weapons to defend their own capital.

The fighting had started on the 16th of April, and the actual shelling on the 20th – the Fuhrer's own birthday.

It was all a disaster – and it didn't help that they had been losing good men, soldiers and officers, right along with their ground. They were completely driven out of Hungary, and Austria, the Netherlands, and France had slipped out of his grip entirely. Now, within his own lands, Kassel had fallen, and Münster, even the precious Nuremberg and the Ruhr Pocket had been seized by the Americans, with the Russians swallowing up the suburbs of Berlin and encircling it completely. Potsdam was gone and every airport in the city had been completely taken, preventing any kind of escape or effort to resupply them. They were without Model, von Rundstedt, von Manstein, Guderian, Kesselring was off in the Alps somewhere… and Rommel, good, dependable Rommel, was dead.

Frankly at this point he would have settled for Holz, or Lange, Grawtiz, Gross, or even Fegelein.

He wished mightily that Prussia was here, but God only knew where his brother might be. Königsberg had been taken, and since then he had not been able to pin down his brother's location. He supposed he could still be fighting with what remained of the 4th Army and 3rd Panzer Army, trying to fight his way out. Maybe he had escaped Soviet capture and was fighting near Bautzen. Who was there? The 4th Panzers and the 17th Army, wasn't it?

What was left of them, of course.

But for now, his brother was missing – no doubt fighting tooth and nail against Russia's people.

Unfortunately, what they did still have included the Fuhrer, still giving his ludicrous orders, like his delusional plan to drive the Russians away with an all-out attack or the attempted breakout at Halbe… his insistence that deserters be hanged, even when they were boys running away from Russian tanks.

Prussia had been right: the man was insane.

He remembered the talk they'd had back in December 1940, when Hitler had just announced his plan to attack Russia's house.

"Bruder _, this is madness. What does he think we can do against Russia when we haven't even secured the whole of Europe!"_

" _Prussia," he had said. "The Russians are –"_

" _So help me, Ludwig, if you start spouting that horseshit about the Russians being subhuman… Think what happened to Napoleon! Think about what happened to me! And Sweden! And Denmark!_

" _The only way to take Russia is to get so far East that we capture and kill the Josef Stalin before winter sets in! Once the snows begin, our men will freeze in their foxholes, the oil will freeze in our Panzers. And we will starve. The Russians burn what they cannot carry, little brother. What Army can march starved and frozen?"_

" _The Fuhrer has ordered it. We cannot disobey his orders."_

" _It is madness," the other had hissed. "You know what it is to fight France and Britain and the others, but you have never fought the Russians."_

" _They have no weapons to match ours! Their so-called Premier Josef Stalin has killed most of their best generals – what will they do, attack us in mobs barehanded?"_

 _And Prussia had shoved his face very close to Germany's, crimson eyes deathly serious. "If he does this to us, little brother, and we cannot take Moscow, Leningrad, and Stalingrad, and capture Stalin by the first winter snows – we will lose this war."_

 _A look of strange weariness came over his brother's face. "We will be destroyed by the ambitions of that stupid little man – that idiot Corporal."_

" _I will not hear such treasonous talk!" he had burst out, storming away._

 _But not fast enough to escape his brother's muttered, "May it be treason and not truth."_

It had been truth. Of course it had been truth – how many wars had Prussia fought? How many against Russia?

Even now, the memory of his arrogance made him burn with shame.

His home was cut in two between the Western Allies and the Russians. The Allies would not hear of anything less than absolute surrender, had rejected all attempts to broker a separate peace away from Russia. His boss was hiding in a bunker, openly delusional, trying to direct troop battalions that no longer existed.

Japan was desperately trying to fend off America's forces, but had been reduced to simply making every advance as bloody and painful as possible for the Americans. He had been pushed back onto his own soil after having ruled most of the Pacific Islands, and was only barely clinging to the Philippines. There would be no help from him – especially not when Russia was slowly beginning to loom over him.

Italy… well, Italy was safe with the Allies. Romano would keep him out of danger.

The European country allowed himself one moment of remembering Italy's bright smile, bubbling laugh, cheerful babbling… his smell of sunshine and pasta…

" _Deutschland_."

The happy memories faded abruptly and he returned to Berlin and his bombed out buildings.

" _Ja_."

They fought street by street as the sun rose steadily above the city.

Even as he darted among the piles of rubble, questions and thoughts crashed through his mind – his usual mental discipline shot to hell.

How had this happened? How had he let himself be fooled by Hitler?

Anger colored his vision as he hurled a grenade towards an advancing Russian tank.

Hitler. The madman who had condemned the whole of the German people as traitors and failures for losing the war. The madman who had ordered the army to destroy all remaining public services – electrical, water, and railroads – so the people would follow him into ruin.

 _That_ fickfehler _no longer cares what happens to my people._ **["fickfehler" – German, literally means a 'fuck error'; someone who should never have been born]** _He orders good men to their deaths for his own glory and then condemns them as cowards… he, who refuses to leave that_ verdammt Fuhrerbunker. _He lies to the people and says he is fighting with them against the Russians, but he cowers in the dirt away from battle…_

Then there were the others. Goebbels and Göring and Himmler… all of them abandoning the people to scramble for their own salvation.

He remembered the last time he had visited the Fuhrerbunker. The silent dread and deep gloom. The unspoken knowledge that the end was coming.

And now, bizarrely enough, he had just received word this morning that Hitler had married his companion-mistress Eva Braun sometime yesterday.

 _I suppose even a man like that wants company at the end._

 _Because it is the end. That man has decided that if he cannot win, he will leap into the abyss – and he will drag my people down with him. He has utterly betrayed us._

* * *

It happened in the afternoon. Germany had been crouching in the remains of what had once been a lovely bakery back when people had been able to go about their business, clutching his rifle to his chest. Berlin had been beside him, helping a handful of soldiers man a machine gun.

Soldiers. Machine gun.

Funny how thirteen-year-olds could be called soldiers when you put a weapon in their hands. Even when that weapon was an ancient, rickety, leftover machine gun that kept jamming.

He had been laying down covering fire as Berlin and the children had desperately tried to get the gun firing again, when a jolt shot through his whole body, from the crown of his head down to the tips of his toes.

His grip failed and the rifle clattered to the floor.

His breath shuddered in his chest.

His stomach clenched so tightly he nearly vomited.

His muscles spasmed.

He fell to the ground on all fours.

And he knew.

Hot tears trickled down his cheeks – he hadn't cried since he had sent Italy away – " _Danke Gott_."

"Herr General Beilschmidt?" whispered one of the child-soldiers, a freckled face blond boy named Albert, and a voice that hadn't even begun to crack. "Are you alright?"

Berlin was staring at him, eyes wide.

They traded a look of total understanding.

The Fuhrer was dead.

The end was coming – perhaps they and their people would survive after all.

 **AN1: Just to remind everyone: The History Lesson is for readers who want a better understanding of what is happening in the story. If you choose to read it - try reading it in the narrator's voice from the English dub. My boyfriend does it and it's hilarious!**

 _ **Historical Background:**_

 _ **There is a Villa Cora just outside of the city of Florence. It was built in the 19** **th** **century and is now used for tourists who are rich enough to pay for the classical, antique décor. Italy and Lucia didn't have that** **problem** **.**_

 _ **Italy might be a loveable spineless little pasta-lover now, but he was once quite the badass. When he was still only Venice, he was a master businessman and sailor, not to mention a bitch to fight if you were trying to invade his city. But when rifles and cannons and the beginnings of modern warfare started coming about, it seems like he decided it was time to bow out and start becoming the Italy we know today. HRE's death didn't help, and neither did Austria's frequently dick-ish rule. And he's been on point in one thing – despite the difficulties and hardship the Italian people have gone through, wars, economic disasters and natural catastrophes, Italy has still managed to put itself together, and remain together as a country. Good for you, Macaroni Brothers!**_

 _ **Nazi officers, particularly those who went through war colleges or the Hitler Youth, received the famous knives, most of which were engraved with suitably patriotic promises of loyalty directed at Germany, but really meant for Hitler.**_

 _ **Yes, for all those who were wondering, or those who didn't pick up on the clues: Lucia was skinned and stabbed multiple times. It was a barrel full of laughs at Auschwitz.**_

 _ **WWII was not kind to the art and architectural treasures of the world, and Italy was not spared. The convent where Leonardo da Vinci painted his famous Last Supper fresco was bombed by Allied planes, and only luck protected the wall da Vinci had chosen. If the roof had been any more damaged, or the nuns slower to protect the fresco, it would have been washed away by the elements. And in Florence, the most famous of statues, including the lovely (and naked) David, were encased in brick to protect them against any bombing raid.**_

 _ **It's a strange and sad thing: even when the Germans were being pinned down from every direction and needed every available soldier to come and help fight against the invading Allies, it was a standing order that every remaining occupant in the concentration camps was to be killed. Of course, once it was determined that the guards did not have the equipment – bullets, gas chambers, or otherwise – to complete the murders, they simply forced them to walk and left anyone who could not walk behind to starve to death in the empty camps. Those on the death marches were ordered to march, with the hope they would drop dead, and any who fell and could not continue were either shot, beaten, or left on the side of the road. There are reports that some German citizens went out of their way to run these poor souls over, but the evidence is spotty at best. I suppose that's what hell is for. Anyway, even as they retreated, the Nazis continued to do their best to spread death and fear around, locking people in buildings and then setting them on fire, forcing them into caves and then dynamiting the entrances closed… And then there was what they left behind at the camps: dead bodies, bodies not quite dead yet, and diseases, oh the diseases – dysentery, pneumonia, typhus… It is really a wonder anyone survived those terrible places.**_

 _ **Meanwhile, concentration camps are being liberated across Europe, making the survivors very happy, and pissing the hell out of the Allies. It's one thing for the Germans to take over other countries. It's a whole other thing for Germans to take innocent men, women, and children, and slaughter them in the thousands, leaving their bodies to rot in the sun. The good American and British men were horrified.**_

 _ **Yes, indeed, this is Alexander, the relationship between America and Great Britain, first born in the Great Rapprochement when America and Britain finally started speaking cordially to each other after the Revolution. He was found wandering through the American Capitol upon Britain's first visit, wailing for tea and something that wasn't burned scones.**_

 _ **The Nazis stole everything they wanted, including the art of Europe. They took what would be considered at least a billion dollars worth of art and cultural treasures, including works by da Vinci, Rembrandt, Raphael, Donatello, Michelangelo, Vermeer, Rubens, and so on. They hated most of the contemporary artists of the day, as well as the Impressionists, such as Picasso and Van Gogh, and burned God knows how many paintings. Imagine, a Van Gogh set on fire. Horrifying. Anyway, once the Nazis realized they were losing the war and their museums were in danger, they hid their stolen artwork away in mines and cellars, and anywhere they thought would be safe. Leaving a fun scavenger hunt for the conquering Allies.**_

 _ **The Tempio Malatestiano is an Italian Renaissance-era cathedral in Rimini. It was heavily damaged during the bombings to the point where the front part of the building caved in. Americans would work together with Italians to rebuild it in the coming years.**_

 _ **Despite the overall outright complicity or silent permission that most Germans displayed towards the Nazis' treatment of the Jewish people – and anyone they didn't like – there were people who resisted and did their best to protect others. Some resistors even managed to infiltrate the Nazi party itself and saved hundreds of people who would have been killed otherwise. If they were discovered, they risked being shot, but many risked it anyway.**_

 _ **The question of how much the Allies knew about the concentration remains a controversial topic. In this story, it is as assumed that the countries knew something bad was happening, but didn't know what. And frankly, taking a bunch of people away from their homes because they were a "threat to national security" was not something America could really complain about with looking hypocritical (looking at you, Japanese internment camps!). But the magnitude of what was happening had been slightly touched on in intelligence reports, but the truly horrific was viewed as exaggeration.**_

 _ **According to Jewish and Christian tradition, God made a pact with a man called Abraham, saying that if Abraham agreed to take God as his one God and follow His orders, God would make Abraham the father of nations. There was a lot more to the promise, but it was also said that if Abraham agreed – which he did – God would make his descendants as "numerous/countless as the stars". There's also a part that says "numerous/countless as the sand on the beach" but that doesn't sound quite as melodic.**_

 _ **Fun fact: Hitler tried to force through an idea to kidnap and/or assassinate the Pope. Yes, that Pope. Because why should people listen to some guy with a stupid hat in Rome when they could listen to some guy with a stupid mustache in Berlin?**_

 _ **Nazi Germany, not content with labeling art and people as degenerate, also labeled music, specifically jazz and swing as un-German, and therefore suitable only for destruction. Before this, this music had actually been extremely popular (one of the few things Swing Kids got right) and German youth were mad about swing dance. But then it was replaced with Wagner and that traditional oompah music you hear on the "It's a Small World" ride – I would have stuck with Mr. Goodman. But really, I can't see Germany swing dancing. I can see Prussia swing dancing – hell, I can see Prussia twerking – but it's weird to think of the stereotypical German actually swing dancing. If you're interested, look up Benny Goodman's Sing, Sing, Sing and the swing dancing and Charleston of the 1930s and 40s.**_

 _ **On April 12, 1945, President Franklin Delano Roosevelt suffered a cerebral hemorrhage and died several hours later.**_

 _ **The Hobbit** **was written in 1939 by J.R.R. Tolkien to almost instant success.**_

 _ **In other news, Benito Mussolini thought he would be creating a new government backed by the Nazis – God knows why, with the Nazis falling back on every front – and came back to Italy, only to find that everyone would really have preferred that he stayed away. On the bright side, he being in the country gave partisans, who were way anti-Mussolini, the chance to find and capture him. And then shoot him and his mistress. And then hang their bodies upside down in the square in Milan. And throw things at them. True story.**_

 _ **Yes, I gave Berlin its own character. Hans has been around since the 12** **th** **century (at least) and is currently not doing so well. He's especially not going to like what the Allies have in mind for him.**_

 _ **The Volkssturm was originally meant as a series of small scale defense forces made up of locals, for small towns out of the way of the invading enemy. By the end of the war, the German government had become so desperate for manpower that they were pressing men as old as 69 and boys as young as 10 into service. Anyone who refused was shot or hanged.**_

 _ **It is said that Erwin Rommel, the Desert Fox, quietly predicted the defeat of Nazi Germany during the stalemate of Stalingrad. Seeing the casualties and the tactics Hitler was insisting on using, he is said to have admitted to an aide that Germany was being led into disaster by its leader.**_

 _ **It is known that Karl Rudolf Gerd von Rundstedt, one of Germany's best battle field commanders, was known to insultingly call Hitler the "Little Corporal", referring to the fact that he had only been a corporal during WWI and had no place to be making battlefield plans over actual generals. Extra fun fact: von Rundstedt was a Prussian. AWESOME!**_

 _ **On April 30** **th** **, less than 48 hours after he married Eva Braun, his mistress, Adolf Hitler shot himself. His aides and attending officers claimed that he had died resisting the Russians, rather than the truth, that he saw the end coming and decided to get out before he had to face the consequences, leaving his people behind to face the music alone.**_

 _ **Hitler once said, "Give me ten years' time and you will not recognize Germany." Compare 1945 with 1935 Germany and he was right.**_


End file.
